Doom 2099 The Beckoning
by DoomScribe
Summary: Latveria has been reduced to an inhospitable pool of toxic sludge by a madman wielding unearthly powers.  Now Doom must renew his power in the strange new world of the future and in the realm of computer cyberspace as he struggles against new foes.
1. Chapter 1 All the King's Horses

**DOOM 2099: The Beckoning**

Gypsy, Sorcerer, Scientist, King ... The man the 20th century vilified and called Doctor Doom has traveled to the year 2099 where the superheroes who once thwarted his plans at world conquest are no more. But his once pristine country of Latveria has been reduced to an inhospitable pool of toxic sludge by a madman wielding unearthly powers. Now Doom must renew his power from abroad in the strange new world of the future and in the realm of computer cyberspace, all while asserting his right to rule as ... DOOM 2099!

**CHAPTER 1: All the King's Horses . . . **

_[Note to readers: This story takes place shortly after Doom2099 # 38]_

The earth was brown and dull under a grey, overcast sky. Dark clouds threatened rain, but the wind blowing up the side of the steep ascent was dry and filled with a bitter, acrid stench. The smell of the dead was all around this high mountain foot path, but there were no creatures, alive nor dead, to be seen. The quiet was unnerving.

The metal boots moved over the rough surface with equal parts calm and determination. A dark green cloak caught the wind and billowed around the tall man like a wild animal on a short leash. He caught the cloak in a metal gauntlet, taming it, and moved silently up the path. His metal armor, medieval in appearance, was remarkably silent, and he made his approach without a single sound save the soft rolling of pebbles down the hillside, disturbed by his passing. He walked through a dark notch in the mountain cliff, a narrow path almost completely hidden from view. He found it by memory, a distant memory of a time long past. It was a memory he was surprised to still find, clear in his mind like a snapshot tucked away in a dusty old family album. It was perhaps this clear and vivid memory that broke his calm facade like a mirror under the blow of a metal fist. For as he stepped through the notch onto the ledge that overlooked the wide, deep valley below, his eyes behind the silver metal mask glowed with a fierce hatred and frustration that he had tried to keep buried these last few weeks. It burned him deep inside, and only the distant thunder, rolling across the valley and slamming into his body with deep, harmonic resonance, kept him from crying out, lashing out with all his fury and might. He was alone and outgunned, and they were far too many to attack on his own now.

"They" were the wave spiders. Two meters tall with wicked sharp talons and hard exoskeleton, they were alien creatures bred in a secret underground bunker from spores captured by early space explorers decades ago. Genetically engineered to be weaponized, they were loosed upon Latveria by the evil Herod and his corporate cohorts. Now free from their masters in the America's and abroad, they flew in fat, lazy circles over what was once his beloved homeland. They feasted on what remained of his countrymen, their alien physiology immune to the necrotoxins they had grown in their bellies. Necrotoxins that had reduced all of the humans living in the valley below into a thick, greasy sludge. Their evil mission for the corrupt Herod completed the wave spiders now nested in the mountains and rocky crags far above the valley, the same rocky outposts that had once harbored a young Victor Von Doom and his fellow gypsies during the reign of the wicked Baron Draasen a century and a half past. The giant flying creatures settled their long exoskeletal limbs with equal irreverence atop his painstakingly restored castle and the tall buildings of Gojradia. They stretched iridescent wings over distant farms and fields turned fallow from neglect. The stench of their guano baked into the once pristine earth. He watched them fly, and nest, and gather their young with a cold, calculating eye. "Not today," he thought with wry malevolence, "but soon, alien monstrosities, soon you will be eliminated, and this land will be clean once more!"

From the rocky hillside strewn with dying brush behind Doom a frantic rustle caused him to whirl around, gauntlets raised and ready to fire. There in the tangle of bracken were three dirty, frightened faces, eyes glazed and faces gaunt with hunger. They shrank back for a moment, then recognized their master in his new armor. "Master!" one of the men called out in a raspy whisper. He stumbled through the bush, and collapsed kneeling in front of his king, as much in respect as in pure exhaustion. His companions followed suit. Their clothes were torn and dirty, their beards unshaven and matted.

"Master, you have come . . . " he coughed harshly, a sound like sandpaper on rough stone.

"Apologies, Master, please, we have not had food nor drink in days," his companion implored.

Doom recognized these men. They were gypsies from the ravaged village below. He offered them water from a pouch he carried, but he was impatient. "Are there other survivors? From the village or from clan Zefiro? Are you alone here?"

"We were sent to wait for you, to guide you to the rest . . . " the first man began.

"I don't know the clans, there are some from Gatineau, and others . . . " the second man seemed confused. "Yanto would know . . . "

"Where is Yanto?" Doom demanded.

"Dead," said the first gypsy, "along with two others. Originally we were six, now all that remains is Kosta, Uriel, and I . . . I am Marcos, the smith."

"Marcos," Doom implored quietly, insistently, "how did you escape the attack on our country?"

"The fortune teller warned us," answered Uriel, "we did not know what danger was coming, but we believed the signs, and left the city."

"Too late for some," Kosta contributed, wiping his mouth as he returned the water pouch to Doom. "We were attacked by the spiders on the pass. Many were killed."

"All who stayed behind are dead," added Uriel forlornly, his sad eyes looked to the valley.

"Who was the fortune teller? Was it Fortune? Did she read cards?" Doom asked.

The men shrugged and looked down. "The word was spread among the clans that night. All we knew was to leave the valley, and head south to the sea. There a freighter would take us to safe lands," Marcos shook his head. "Those who believed in the old ways followed the elders without question. Nobody really believed anything like this could happen . . . " His voice trailed off, he did not say, "under your reign. "

The unspoken words were echoed in Doom's thoughts. If he'd known, he never would have left. "Americas be damned!" He thought. "I should have left that country to rot inside it's own fetid cesspool than leave my homeland unguarded and at the mercy of these heartless scavengers!" His eyes began to follow the road from the pass, picturing the pitched battle that must have taken place there between the fleeing gypsies and the airborne attackers. "Why have you men stayed?" he asked absently, eyes still searching the western slope of the valley.

Marcos answered quickly. "The seer Larinda, from my clan, she sent us here to wait for you, she knew you would come back to save us . . . " his voice trailed off as he stood and looked toward the darkening sky to the east. Another wave of thunder washed over them. He picked up a long stick with a sharpened bit of metal on the end. In his thick hands Doom could see the power that once forged steel, an old skill that required strength of heart and limb, still practiced among the gypsies, but the posture of the man betrayed his fear. What could have frightened them so?

"How far have they gone? Where are they now?" Doom asked, gazing at the sky and trying to see what the other man saw. Given the men's obvious malnourished condition, they could be quite mad.

"It has been 25 days since we left them, and we traveled five days on foot back here. But they may not have gone far. Many were on foot, and fuel was very low. Also, water. Many wanted to stop and wait for the rains, but the land has become treacherous. It is not safe for us out there." Marcos anxiously twisted the makeshift spear, and the other men grew increasingly restless. "We should take cover," he murmured.

Doom turned his attention back to the valley, till he finally found what he was looking for. A bunker, hidden among the trees on the valley wall no more than five miles below them. Several months ago he had hidden a supply of weapons, fuel and transport vehicles there, a cache designed for an emergency such as this. His armor's eyepieces zoomed in on the low structure. It appeared intact and undisturbed at first, not entirely a good sign, since Fortune also would have known of its existence as a privileged member of his cabinet. Then he saw the wave spiders, four, then five adults, and what could only be baby spiders, a dozen or more, crawling all over the outside of the wide, low hill that hid those precious supplies. They had made a nest in the soft loamy soil of the weapons bunker. It would be unnecessarily risky to try to take it now. He turned back to the men.

"Master, surely your vehicle is close, we can leave, meet up with the others," Uriel pleaded.

"There are no vehicles here, imbecile!" Doom shouted, roughly brushing the man away.

He was angrier with himself more than anything, and Doom was beginning to regret his decision to return so woefully unprepared. He had left in haste, his brief stint as President of the United States had not been very profitable, and the coup that had unseated him, lead by the traitorous Herod and his alien cohorts, had left his resources diminished. Many of his allies had been killed, and those left could no longer be trusted, corrupted by the regime that replaced him. He too had nearly died under their treachery. He had been forced to improvise far more than he was accustomed to. Though many of his physical resources were similarly either destroyed or made unavailable, he had far more resources then most realized, accumulated through years of preparing for just such unexpected events. He had expected there to be more here that he could use, but reliable intelligence out of Latveria was scant. He had boldly decided to investigate personally, a decision he was slowly coming to regret. Still, he had other options. And a Doom unprepared was still a formidable Doom, even in this century.

Softly now, he continued, "I arrived on a one-way shunt to a transport pad just west of here. We will attempt to locate a working vehicle en route to the rest of your tribe. Until then, we will have to walk!" For now, the restoration of Latveria would have to wait. Turning his back on his homeland, Doom focused his attention on the barren landscape to the south, now barely visible in the fading light. From the southern edge of the Arkopa pass through the Malhela Mountains, the dying light flickered over a vast uninhabited range of low hills and scrub, treacherous canyons, and half-forgotten mine fields from years of warfare a century ago. Somewhere out there too, were the remains of Makhelastan, and a grisly scene that they would be wise to bypass (_the neighboring country of Makhelastan was destroyed by necrotoxins days before the attack on Latveria, in Doom 2099 #32_). The blackened vista before them seemingly sucked up all the light from the sky. A chill wind blew up the mountainside and unfurled his verdant cape.

"No!" Kosta shouted anxiously, pulling at Marcos' sleeve. "We must take cover . . . the night . . . !"

The last bit of sunlight glinted off of Doom's armor and metal faceplate. "This is no time for cowardice, man! Our kin are in need. You must take me to them, now!" he ordered.

"No!" cried Kosta again, his face screwed up in pain and despair.

"It is dangerous to be out at night. There is no cover on the road." Marcos said.

"What is it?" Doom asked impatiently, "What are you frightened of?"

"The spiders," Marcos answered, pointing to the valley. A faint hum, a deep, resonate buzzing, wafted up the mountains from the darkening valley below. "They hunt at night. All that was once living in Latveria is gone, and they have developed a taste for fresh meat. They will fly beyond our borders to find it now. If we follow the road, we will be exposed."

"Then stay off the road," Doom answered calmly, "and I will deal with any spiders that dare challenge me!" Doom began to stride down the steep mountain path that led away from Latveria, without a backward glance to his homeland or his new companions, certain that they would follow. Indeed, it would be foolish to stay, cover or no. Alone in these barren windswept mountains, they would soon die.

Marcos looked at the Master with new confidence, and began to make his way down after him. Uriel too, felt a little of the pride one must have in a leader so decisive and so fearless, yet silently hopeful that it was not foolish bravado he followed. He gathered up his leather sack with his few meager belongings, and began to stumble down the path. Poor Kosta whimpered and shivered in the dark notch in the rock, looking to the sky and to the valley and back to his retreating companions with equal parts fear and despair. To be alone on this mountain was certain death, and so what little sense was left in his poor, mad brain, bade him to go, and he scrambled to catch up to the others.

In the bleak sand filled deserts of a land no longer inhabited by any nation, a worm-like train of bundled figures and slow-moving vehicles wound its way through the sand, zig-zagging around steep dunes and deep pits, moving steadily south like a convoy of ants. Scattered among the ancient trucks and occasional camper, were even older gypsy vardos, pulled by pack animals of indeterminate lineage. Other animals, cattle and goats, trailed along behind them or were patiently led by hunched figures bundled against the blowing sand. One such figure walked near the front of the group, carefully probing the sand ahead with a walking stick, while keeping a firm grasp onto the lead of the cow that plodded grudgingly three feet behind her. Her feet were covered in makeshift leather boots, tied with straps around her legs. The rest of her clothing was little better than rags, tied at the cuffs to keep the blowing sand out. The hood of her cape and bright colored scarf covered most of her face, except for the eyes. Her dark gypsy eyes squinted through the blowing sand underneath serious, heavy brows. A fine film of pale sand coated her dark skin wherever it was exposed. She carried a small pack on her back, and the remainder of her personal belongings were securely strapped to the back of her cow. A rope around her waist trailed behind her, tied to the waist of another man walking a few meters back. A third man was also connected behind him. The rope was a survival tool against the shifting sand, invisible sand traps and equally frightening sand storms capable of reducing visibility to less than a meter in less than an instant. Today, the rope would save her life.

Marissa steadily probed the sand ahead of her as she walked, careful to find firm footing as she tried also to keep an eye on their intended course. Just below the surface, her stick hit something hard with a resounding thunk, causing her to stop and step back a pace. She probed again. There was something there, under the sand, something with a definite echo. Carefully she pushed her stick down into the sand, tapping twice more against the hard surface below. She was not mistaken, there was something there! Something hollow, possibly a buried truck, or a fuel tank! She turned back to her companions and began to wave frantically. Just then, the earth caved in on her.

She later would recall the strangest sensation, of falling through the earth, with sand all around her, then suddenly empty space. Initially, all she recognized was fear and adrenaline, the helplessness of falling, the instant of knowing that death was very near. Then the vibrant snap of the rope at her waist, halting her momentum only a second after the fall began. Then she knew she was not dead, because she was instantly aware of the pain in her back and shoulders as the rope cinched tighter around her waist and burned the skin below. At the end of her rope, there was only darkness at first, and then her eyes began to adjust. She looked up to see the hole through which she had fallen, a glimmer of light and a steady stream of white sand falling through. This was not a sand pit, she was inside of . . . something? She looked around her. Light beams touched bits and pieces of vertical walls, reflective surfaces, strange lumpy things on the ground far below. The cavern was enormous! What was nothing but a massive barren sand field above covered a vast underground expanse hidden from view and waiting for discovery. Where the sand above was thin, light broke through what could only be called a glass ceiling. Suspended as she was almost a hundred meters above the floor, Marissa began to get a clear picture of what she had found.

Above her, Jake cleared the sand away from the hole and peered down, following the swinging rope with a flashlight. "Marissa!" he called anxiously. "Are you all right?"

"Jake!" Marissa called back as the beam of light played across her face, "it's a city! Jake, it's the Hidden City!"

Later, when the gypsies had found a passage into the underground city, they began to explore and scavenge supplies. Water was of paramount importance, as they had not been able to replenish their supplies since leaving Latveria. All the water that trickled down from that high mountain country was tainted, contaminated with traces of necrovirus. The same was true for the water from rivers and streams that had passed through their southern neighbor, Makhelastan. There was not enough virus in the water to kill, at first, but any who sipped it regularly soon fell sickly and died. So once the trucks and vans and vardos were secured in a central area of the city, the elders dispatched teams of two and three to scour the city. There was a little food, some fuel, but the city had been scavenged before. Perhaps the sand above the crystal dome cleared away once every ten or twenty years, enough to keep the legend of the Hidden City alive in the tales of the travelers who stumbled upon it as Marissa had done. What the gypsies soon found, however, was that the city was a literal time capsule, a frozen moment from a time that few among them had witnessed.

"How's your back?"

"Still hurts a little," Marissa answered, watching her meter as they made their way through an underground corridor. Jake carried a shovel and leather bag, and a bright head lamp strapped around his forehead illuminated their path.

"We can go back, if you want to," Jake answered. He was tall and lanky, no more than eighteen, and bereft of his bulky outer clothing he appeared very thin. "Someone else can search this sector for us."

"Don't like caves, do you Jake?" Marissa teased.

"Not really," he answered honestly.

"I used to go into the caves above Antikva village every summer," Marissa mused quietly. "Not too deep, but just a little, it was always so cool and quiet."

"Shock it! You're a reg'lar bat girl!" Jake grinned. "I always knew there was somethin' creepy bout you!"

"What's creepy is this," they were near the edge of the crystal dome now, and Marissa ran her long fingers along the cool, hard surface. It was clear for an indeterminate depth, maybe three meters thick, maybe more. Then behind that was solid rock. The inner surface was as smooth as Waterford crystal, and as hard as diamonds. The low power laser from her electronic probe reflected perfectly off of its surface.

"I heard the elders talking this morning," Jake answered, "they said this has probably been here since before the forty-year's war, judging by the cars and stuff they found. Low tech stuff, primitive like cell phones and com boards and shockin' worthless copper wires. What's really weird is the way some of the tall buildings go all the way up to the top of the dome, then it looks like they were burned away. Lukas said that he thought they had used some kind of plasma weapon, hot enough to turn the sand instantly to glass." Jake rapped his knuckles against the surface.

"Yeah, right, like Lukas is some kind of tech jockey," Marissa stopped suddenly, staring at her meter. "Jake! Look!" The meter was fluctuating wildly, the display readings were jumping all around. Marissa hurried ahead, racing around a rocky corridor, Jake struggling under the low ceiling to keep up behind her, until they burst into a large room, and stopped in their tracks.

It had been a patio, with a clay tile floor and a freestanding stone fountain. The rubble they had just passed through was what was left of the house, but here the patio was intact, and strangely surreal. The fountain was empty, but the figure of a small boy sculpted from bronze danced in its center. Behind him was the garden wall, and there the bottom curve of the crystal bubble above them came down and neatly cleaved the wall in two, disappearing into the tile floor with barely a trace. But where the wall and the crystal bubble met, a tiny trickle of water seeped through, staining the stone wall and sustaining a tiny streak of amber algae along its edges. Marissa rushed up to the wall, and sampled the water with her meter, careful not to drip any on her skin. Jake held his breath, and licked his dry lips hopefully.

Marissa smiled, "It's clean!" she announced joyfully. "No trace of the virus!" She held her hand carefully under the slow trickle, and gathered the precious fluid into the cup of her hand. She let the cool liquid drip into her mouth and soothe her parched throat. She stepped aside as Jake did the same. They drank once more, then removed canteens from their pouches and carefully filled them from the slow trickle. Too much of the precious fluid slipped away and disappeared in the ground below, sucked up by the dry earth. Working together they managed to move the little boy's fountain to where the basin was positioned underneath the steady trickle. They stepped back with pride to watch as the water slowly began to fill the dry bowl, and then hurried back to give the good news to the rest of the clans.

Doom stood alone, pacing along the ridge of a low rise in the land, scanning the dark expense ahead with infrared scopes built into his remarkable armor. In the low notch behind him, his reluctant companions huddled and shivered in the cold night air, too frightened to build even a small fire. Their progress had been agonizingly slow. The men were weak, malnourished and dehydrated. It would not do if they were to die on him now, before he had the chance to ascertain the path the gypsies' tribe had taken. There were a thousand square kilometers or more between them and the sea, and the wandering tribe could be anywhere. He was less familiar with this landscape than he had been in his time; a hundred years had changed more than just the people. But the gypsies endured, and he trusted their resourcefulness. It was imperative that he find them, he had to know . . . He looked back upon the men, reluctantly admitting that despite their weaknesses he needed them. Long ago, he had made a promise, a vow to protect his gypsy kin. The holder of that promise was long dead now, but he nonetheless felt bound by it.

When he rejoined the men in the dark hollow, Uriel and Kosta appeared to be asleep, huddled in their thin cloaks on the hard earth. Marcos sat alone, warily holding his wooden spear and staring up at the stars. He stood as Doom approached, but Doom bade him to sit again as he too settled to the ground, pulling his cloak up around his knees.

"The way ahead appears clear," Doom stated quietly. "We will resume at first light."

"Ahead there are two other dangers," Marcos stated, and began to scrape lines in the dirt with the tip of the spear. "Though we leave the spiders behind, there are other inhabitants who would attack us for no other reason than trespass. South of Makhelastan in the valleys of Banat, the settlement there harbors the Collective Guardsmen, formerly under the employ of Tiger Wylde. The commanders of the Guard fled there when you freed our country from Wylde's rule, and they have always hated the gypsies."

"I knew that some of the leaders had escaped," Doom mused aloud. "I had not yet had the time to track them down for their crimes against our kin. I suspect that they hold little love for me as well."

"Hmmm, yes, well they are well armed and organized; their borders are very well patrolled and seem to be expanding into the wastelands." Marcos pointed to an area he sketched on the ground. "More dangerous though are the Crow. They inhabit the hills to the west and north. They are a wild people, crazed by the drugs they consume in their fighting rituals, and they appear to attack without reason or provocation. We witnessed an attack by the Crow on a CG patrol. They were ferocious beyond belief, fighting even when mortally wounded, biting and scratching at the guardsmen with their last breaths. Twenty or more were killed by the guardsmen's weapons, and still they attacked. A dozen armored and armed guardsmen were killed by the mob, only two escaped." Marcos shuddered. "Afterwards, the Crow disemboweled and consumed the dead in a horrific feast and ritual."

"Were the caravans attacked?" Doom asked.

"Not so far as I know," Marcos answered. "The plan was to skirt the CG borders to the east, then head across the wastelands before dropping into Dubrovnik from the coastal mountains, if we can find a passage through the Dinaric. But no one really knows how far the Crow have expanded their territories since the fall of Latveria and Makhelastan. The spiders, too, may be ranging farther now. The tribe was in dire need of fuel and water. The caravan could have halted somewhere along the way. If they were attacked since we left, they would all be dead now" Marcos hung his head between his knees, frightened by the prophecy he spoke.

Doom looked to the sleeping men. Alone, he could raid a Guardsmen's outpost, collect weapons and transport. Possibly supplies, too. It would be better for all of them to be armed with real weapons if they were attacked along the way. He would have to leave them alone and unprotected so that he could move quickly. "How far to the nearest Guardsmen's outpost?" he asked.

"The permanent installations are deep inside the borders," Marcos pointed to a place on his map. "Here is where they keep some supplies for the border patrols, and a hundred men or more. There are smaller stations here, and here, maybe one day's journey from where we are now. They are very close to the main depot, "Marcos continued, sensing the Master's intent. "Any attack on those positions would bring swift backup from the main forces."

Doom was silent, and then he erased the map in the sand with his gloved hand. "Say nothing of this to the others," he said coldly. "We will alter our course eastward in the morning."

Marcos nodded in quiet compliance, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Master. He would do as he asked, and the gods be merciful should they fail.

Doom looked to the sky as Marcos drifted off to sleep. The gods would have their way with him, that he knew. He wasn't about to make it easy on them though. The gods, however or wherever they rested this night, had not yet given up in their endless quest to test his strength. Black fate, it seemed, always followed one step behind Doom, and just when he began to relax, it reared its ugly head into the night sky, blotting out the stars. The wind whistled behind fluttering wings, and trees bent under the weight of eight gangly legs. The wave spiders had found them!

From the ledge of a small cliff, a rocky perch above the long empty road, two Crow warriors watched with morbid fascination the attack of the spiders on the small gypsy party below. The Crow scouts had been following the progress of the three gypsy men and their strangely armored companion since coming down from the mountain late that evening. Silently they had stalked the strangers, and waited out the night in a place safe from the prying eyes of the tall metallic one. Now, they ventured close to the edge, hunched in curious concentration over the scene before them.

Doom roused himself quickly at the first noise from the wave spiders, and was firing weapons from his gauntlets as the creatures descended with murderous intent upon his comrades. The three adult spiders flew tightening circles above them, avoiding the deadly blasts. Some of the fireballs struck, but glanced off of heavily armored plates, burning but not destroying. Doom began to fall back, changing his tactics as he adjusted his weaponry. The spiders screeched in rage and fury as they flew above them, a sound designed to frighten and subdue their intended prey. It roused the gypsy men from their sleep, but mad Kosta was transfixed by those horrible sounds. One of the spiders dove in, and though Marcos tried to ward it off with his spear, he was swept aside by the greater bulk of the alien creature. Kosta was skewered by the long bony mouth-part the spiders used to immobilize their prey before he even had a chance to cry out. His body wriggled helplessly upon the jagged spear as he died, blood spurting from the gaping wound.

The spider was unaware for a moment, and caught up in it's gory prize it was unable to fly away. Doom fired a series of blasts to distract the larger of the spiders, as he leaped for the one that held Kosta. Using a dense energy blade extruded from his gauntlets, he cut a wide gash into the thick plate exoskeleton on the spider's underbelly. The creature screamed and took off into the air at an incredible rate, leaving its intended meal but with Doom still clinging to its side. Holding on with one hand he peeled back a large section of the exoskeleton, exposing the pulsating innards. As the spider reached with eight bony appendages in an attempt to dislodge this potent adversary, Doom fired concentrated heat blasts into the heart of the beast. Dying, the spider fell to the earth, and Doom landed on his feet in the sand beside it.

Marcos and Uriel were back to back, standing alone against the remaining two. The spiders towered above them as the men desperately parried blows from mouth and leg with spear and club. As soon as Doom landed, he began his assault on the larger spider. The big male immediately turned its attention to this greater threat. It hissed as it struck at the armored man with a long bony leg that whipped out from behind it with the velocity of a runaway freight train. The appendage would surely have cleaved a lesser man in two, and it appeared for a moment that it had done just that to Doom! The resourceful gypsy had instead used the phasing power within his armor to momentarily make his molecules intangible. The limb passed through his body and he caught it between his hands on the other side, delivering a concussive blow through his gauntlets that imploded the limb, spraying the company with green slime that pulsated out of the severed limb. Enraged, the male spider turned on Doom and grabbed him with both mandibles in a crushing, vice-like grip. Doom still held onto the sharp talon from the remnants of the spider's leg, and as the spider attempted to push Doom into its gaping mouth, Doom buried the claw deep into the spider's eyes. The coup de grace was a tightly focused electrical charge, conducted from Doom's gauntlet directly through the severed limb and into the spider's brain. The creature collapsed, releasing Doom, as its head exploded from within in a hail of blue fire and brain matter.

The third spider screamed in rage as her mate fell, and struck wildly at Uriel who was thrown to the ground with a badly cut arm. The spider did not close in for the kill, for if she was an intelligent creature she surely sensed the danger as the armored one approached. She chose to flee, and screamed as she went, pelted by laser blasts from Doom's armor. The energy beams burned the outer skin, but bounced without much effect off of that hard spinal plate on her back. She was out of range in moments, disappearing into the darkness as the sky began to show the first signs of the new day.

On the ledge above the battleground, the two Crow warriors had also disappeared. Gone into the desert without a sound or a trace.

On the battleground, the two dead spiders began to settle into the dust. Kosta was dead. Uriel was badly wounded. One skirmish, one day of their journey behind them. This was a bad sign, Doom thought as he watched the first few fingers of dawn brighten the sky to the east. His armor's weapons systems had proven to be a poor match for the alien biology that Herod had loosed upon this world Marcos at least was unscathed, tending to Uriel's wound with a ragged bandage. But Doom felt the first faint buzzing of a warning in his armor's systems. Something had happened when that alien limb had passed through his body. If he could stop and do a system-wide diagnostic he was sure he could eradicate the problem. No time for that now. No place, stranded as they were in this untamed wilderness. He felt a slight nausea, an unpleasant churning in his gut, then promptly ignored it. Hunger, probably, and fatigue. That too, would have to wait. They had many more miles yet to go.

**END CHAPTER ONE**

_**". . . I have Promises to keep,**_

_**And miles to go before I Sleep."**_

_**Robert Frost**_

_**"Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening."**_

DS

April 9, 1996


	2. Chapter 2 If I Die Before I Wake

**DOOM 2099: The Beckoning**

_Gypsy, Sorcerer, Scientist, King ..._ The man the 20th century vilified and called Doctor Doom has traveled to the year 2099 where the superheroes that once thwarted his plans at world conquest are no more. But his once pristine country of Latveria has been reduced to an inhospitable pool of toxic sludge by a madman wielding unearthly powers. Now Doom must renew his power from abroad in the strange new world of the future and in the realm of computer cyberspace, all while asserting his right to rule as ... DOOM 2099!

**CHAPTER 2: If I Die Before I Wake . . .**

Out of the darkness, a shadow of movement caught the attention of the two gypsy lookouts, standing uneasy guard over the entrance into the cave-like Hidden City. Underneath the mountain of sand behind them lay a shining crystal dome, formed long before either of these men had been born, created by an unrecorded and unnatural event that had sealed within all that remained of a once thriving metropolis. Now, her cavernous interior under that glass ceiling served as sanctuary to an exiled gypsy caravan. These were the seeming sole survivors of the "cleansing" of their homeland of Latveria by an indiscriminate necrovirus, launched by a madman they would never know. Other madmen, closer to home, now threatened the gypsies' tribe. To the east, the Collective Guardsmen, once the police force that zealously enforced the will of their former enslaver, Tiger Wylde. To the west, the feral tribe of men that called themselves the Crow, bowing to no law save the survival of the fittest. Hence, the unease of the two gypsy guards as the shadow in the darkness crossed the sand field ahead of them, until one of the shadows called out a weary greeting in their native tongue.

"Help, please!" the voice pleaded, "he's been hurt!"

One of the guards moved forward. The shadows approached the camp lights and began to take shape. Two men, with weapons slung over their shoulders, carried between them a third, who did not walk but dragged legs limply behind. The two gypsies struggled up the sand under their unmoving burden, a large man with face hidden by a heavy cloak. As they reached the entrance, they dropped the cloaked one on the sand in front of the guards.

"We were ambushed," one of the two men explained between heavy breaths, as the guard examined the injured one. The wounded man's life spilled out of a gaping hole through his ribcage and stained the sand where he lay. The guard turned him over. The eyes were fixed and glazed.

"This one is dead," he said quietly. "I am sorry, Andros. There is nothing we can do."

Andros, the younger of the two patrolmen dropped to his knees beside his dead brother and covered his face with his hands as he silently wept. The other man looked away in anger, and spoke to the guard with fierce resolve. "I must speak to the council."

The guard shook his head. "They are in chambers now, Tobias, and not to be disturbed."

"Enough with the closed doors!" Tobias shouted, "our patrols are being wiped out every day! There will be none left to lead to safety if we remain here much longer!"

The young man on the ground lifted his head and spoke with frightening calm to his commander. "Where will we go, Tobias? There is no passage through the Dinaric to the sea. We are trapped here. We are all going to die."

The three men looked at the boy who cradled his dead brother's head in hands that should be passing time with school books and young girls. Instead his hands were worn by the death he had touched, and his face was ghostlike with the burden of endless suffering. In the flickering light of the portable lamps, the three gypsy men felt the weight of that fearful prophecy fall upon them like a blanket of frozen air, and the fear was reflected in their faces. They were silent, and there was all around them the cold quiet of the shifting sands and the distant flickering of stars.

Inside the Hidden City, no stars showed through the sheath of sand that covered the crystal dome above. Underneath that distant ceiling, artificial lights and small campfires lit the musty darkness, shedding some small comfort onto the groups that gathered together to sing quiet songs or tell stories passed on from generations' past. Some of the gypsy children were laughing playfully as they made a broken down old car with rounded features and bug like eyes the object of a new game. Although many of the buildings left in the city were perfectly habitable, most of the gypsies gathered their belongings upon the wide, barren open spaces that had once been parks of grasses and flowers and tall trees. It was their way, to sleep where they stopped, needing no roof or walls to separate them from their comrades. A short distance from the open courtyard where most of the gypsies gathered, down a broken stone road, past a low wall pockmarked with mortar fire and ancient, faded graffiti, there was a small stucco house, nondescript and unassuming except for the warm light that emanated from its glass windows. Inside, the gypsy council was meeting to discuss their plans and weigh their options.

"The water won't last," Gavril emphasized his point with sharp jabs of his pipe. "There is little enough to go round as it is, and no telling when the pipeline will run dry."

Marissa sat quietly in the far corner of a plain kitchen, cross-legged on the tile counter top and absently chewing her fingernails as she watched and listened to the verbal wrangling of the elders. The elder council, twelve in all, gathered around a small wooden table, drinking coffee and chewing on stale bread as they quietly discussed the future of the tribes. Larinda, the seer, was there, calmly swirling the last remaining drops of tea in a fine china cup. The old woman wore a ragged gingham dress and a plain scarf wrapped tightly around her grey hair. She was a small woman, her feet did not touch the floor from where she sat, but her presence in the room was enormous. A faded bar code tattoo on her neck marked her as one who had lived through and escaped the gypsy internment camps that had almost decimated their population, along with half of Italy, in the frightening genetic purification of forty years past. Her chief adversary at the other side of the table was Gavril, a gaunt and hunched old man whose fierce jaw chomped defensively upon an equally aged corn cob pipe. Gavril was equal parts smoke and steam, for despite his coarse talk and gruff attitude, his eyes glowed with a mischievous twinkle and his mouth turned easily at the corner to a smile. He turned his charm briefly to Marissa with a smile and wink before he returned to their discussion.

"Before that, there will be no food," another woman added. "If we slaughter the cows and goats there will be some meat for awhile, but no milk for the children."

"Where will we go?" a tall man, one of the youngest of the council, asked. "The patrols have found no passage through the mountains. When the rains come, the Alps will be covered in snow and ice. If we are trapped on a pass there, we will never escape."

Marissa gazed out the window at the distant campfires as she remembered what Jake had told her about the mountains to the southwest that now barred their passage. The Dinaric Alps, rising to nearly 3000 meters, were a massive range of cold and inhospitable limestone peaks, not at all like the granite-clad mountains of her native Latveria. Where the familiar peaks of home were softened by tall pines, grassy meadows and cascading waterfalls, the mountains of the Dinaric range were as inhospitable to the plants as to man, and few trees grew in its thin soil. The length and breadth of the range was such that they lifted like an enormous wall above the sandy plains below. There were few if any passages across the Dinaric to the Adriatic, and formidable though they were, the mountains were not the only barrier between the gypsy refugees and safe haven.

"More reason to go now," Gavril was arguing pointedly. "There must be a way through, it has been done before. And we will find it! But the longer we wait the more dire are our chances for success."

Before another word could be spoken, the young commander of the patrol burst without warning into the room. "Harris is dead," Tobias announced sternly. He slammed his rifle down onto the table in front of the council to emphasize his frustration. "Ambushed by the Crow not more than 2 klicks from here. That is three this week and soon there will more. They will find where we have hidden and we will be trapped in this stinking hole like roaches in a drainpipe!"

For a moment, everyone was shocked into silence. Marissa jumped down and stepped close behind Larinda. "Jake is out there . . ." she whispered. But Larinda quietly shushed the girl and patted the nervous hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

"Tobias now is not the time . . ." Gavril began sternly.

"The shock it isn't!" Tobias argued. "Andros is without a brother now, and Petrovna is without a son! How many more mothers have to lose their sons before we do something?"

"You must trust us, Tobias," Larinda didn't raise her voice, but everyone stopped and listened. Her eyes glazed over slightly, and she began to speak in a strange sing-song harmony that rose and fell in pitch and tone. She was having a vision. "Doom has crossed into the plain of Banat. He is searching for the People now. He will face great trial, and enemies without and within, but he has heard the call. Soon he will join us, and he will lead us to freedom through a great fall of water to the sea." Larinda sighed deeply, and smiled, always amazed by the clarity and calmness of the visions that took her. Her eyes returned to normal, and she fixed Tobias with a penetrating stare. "You must have faith, commander, Doom is coming."

Marissa felt her heart skip a beat at the mention of Doom, the legendary leader of the gypsies from an age long past. "Was he really coming here?" she thought, then quickly dismissed her doubt. Larinda's visions were rarely false ones.

"Doom!" Tobias shouted. He was not entirely swayed by the seer's striking visions. "What do I know of Doom? Where was our savior when the spiders struck? What compassion has he shown the gypsies when we stood in the way of his ambition? How do we even know that he is the true Doctor Doom of Legend?"

"He is, Tobias," Marissa almost shouted back at the commander. "If you'd seen him, you'd know it!"

"Star-struck girl," Tobias countered, "you're day dreaming again! Go back to your fantasy books! What use has Doom for us now?"

"Enough!" Gavril raised his voice in controlled anger and stepped between the two. "The council will decide if we heed Larinda's vision, and wait for Doom. Meanwhile, you two will take your shouting outside!"

Marissa hung her head, and shuffled out of the room as ordered. Tobias followed, snatching up his weapon defiantly as he left. Once outside in the darkness, he caught up to Marissa and fell into step beside her. He cleared his throat, but she paid him no heed. "I'm sorry for shouting at you in front of the council," Tobias said softly. "I just wanted them to listen to reason . . ."

Marissa didn't answer, turning away from him to run her hand along a broken wall.

"Look," Tobias continued, "it's not as bad as it seems. We'll get out of here soon, and we'll cross the mountains and then we'll be free again. Maybe one day we can even return to Latveria." He pressed closer to her, intoxicated by the honeysuckle smell from her long black hair. "We don't need some dead king to save us . . ."

Marissa turned on him angrily. "You don't believe, Tobias," she glared at him through the darkness of the cave with a fluorescent heat. "After all that's happened, you still don't believe! You have forsaken the gypsy way and put your faith in nothing but technology. What problems can you solve with guns, that won't end in bloodshed? You don't believe the visions, you don't believe the dreams, and you don't believe in Doom! Well I do! I've seen him, and I know he cares for us! We're his kin, and he's bound to us by blood! That's why he's coming, and that's why he'll save us!"

"He's a man, same as any man!" Tobias argued. "And he'll cheat and lie and steal and bleed same as any man! He's not a god, Marissa! He could be killed out there same as us! And even if he does come, who's to say he comes to save us? We've got to learn to face this on our own, and to fight if we have to! That's all I'm saying, we can't put all our hope into one man!"

Marissa looked at him with new eyes, startled now that she was ever attracted to this swaggering young soldier. "I can," she said defiantly, and turned quickly to disappear into the darkness of the strange and silent buildings.

On the plains of Banat, the rocky lowlands of the mountains gave way to rolling hills carpeted by brown grass and dotted with a few sickly trees. Outcroppings of giant rocks provided some shelter from the fierce wind that blew down from the mountains, and better cover for the weary pair of gypsy travelers that carefully watched the road below. The dirt road in the valley below them followed the path of an old river, long since diverted elsewhere. The road was frequently used by trucks and old army jeeps, still driven out here in the wilderness where the maglev tracks of the cities did not reach. In the distance, the dust from a convoy of those ancient transports signaled their approach long before the vehicles themselves could be seen, and the ragged pair waiting on the hill above the road sank instinctively lower into their rocky shelter as the convoy came closer.

"How many are there?" Uriel asked, whispering even though they were hundreds of meters from the approaching vehicles. He clutched his wounded arm as he spoke, still violently painful from where the wave spider had sliced him. The wound was infected, and the poison in his blood was making him weaker by the hour. The injured limb hung limply at his side, and his face was ghostly pale beneath his dirty brown hair. Still suffering from hunger and dehydration, Uriel had made it this far on sheer determination and the strength of his faith in the Master.

"Twenty trucks, maybe more," Marcos answered, peering through a pair of old, battered binoculars at the road below. "Plus flyer escorts, a patrol, seven or eight, can't tell for sure."

"And Doom? Can you see him?"

"No, but he's down there, somewhere . . ." Marcos voice trailed off as he scanned the road in front of the convoy for some sign of the Latverian monarch. They had diverted their path eastward, in the hopes of pilfering supplies or transportation from the outposts of the Collected Guardsmen. When they happened upon the river road, Marcos had recognized it as one of several possible supply routes between the westernmost CG outposts. How Doom had known that it would soon be used, was a mystery to the two weary gypsies, but known he had, and had ordered them to wait on this rocky, windswept knell. Now, less than a day later, any doubts they may have had vanished into the wind. He had earned their respect, but what chance did one man have against a well armed and battle trained patrol of mercenaries like the Guardsmen?

The trucks moved steadily across the scorched earth, big tires bouncing over the rough cut road. They were ancient army trucks, gasoline powered, smoky exhaust, internal combustion, big lumbering beasts from an age past that had seen many wars and been driven across many roads such as this one. Their paint was peeling; huge dents and bullet holes marred the armor plate that hadn't seen fresh paint in many years; ages old rubber tires were worn so thin that one could imagine they could see the air inside. Rust was all that held together some of their parts. But their engines were carefully maintained, for they were useful tools in this remote, war-torn wilderness. Underneath their green canvas canopies, the essential supplies to fuel their war against the Crow would soon find their way to the waiting Guardsmen at a lonely outpost. Alongside the trucks, at a distance far enough to not be affected by the huge clouds of dust thrown up by those massive tires were the flyers. Sleek, modern, single-person patrol aircraft that could dart in and around the less elegant vehicles they escorted. The flyers were well-armed and bristling with the latest detection technology. Infrared scopes and motion sensors swept over the ground before and beside the road. Hands were ready at the triggers of forward mounted plasma rifles. The pilots kept in constant radio contact with the convoy leaders through integrated headsets inside their shiny helmets, and they moved their position along the armada in a dynamic rotation designed to confuse their enemy. The well-seasoned combat pilots scanned the rocky terrain ahead with dogged intensity, trusting eyes and instinct as much as their high tech instruments, but they were confident that no ambush could pierce their formidable perimeter, even here in this deep gorge so close to enemy territory. High above the road, Uriel and Marcos were motionless in the rocks, waiting the Master's signal.

One of the trucks moving along with the convoy suddenly sputtered, coughed, rattled a sick death knell, and then died altogether. It rolled to a stop at the bottom of the grade, the driver easing it gently to the side of the road away from a precipitous drop into the rocky riverbed. Inside the truck's cab, the driver beat his hand against the wheel as he tried again and again to turn over the engine. Finally he shrugged and popped the latch to the hood, waving the trucks behind him to go on around. His riding companion laid down his weapon and got out, moving to the front of the vehicle to lift the hood and inspect the malfunctioning motor.

As the trailing ends of the convoy moved past, two of the flyers moved in to take up positions on either side of the truck, one close to speak to the occupants, one high and behind to look out for trouble.

"What's the problem?" the flyer asked the driver impatiently.

"I don't know!" the driver shouted back at the hovering patrolman. "It just died! Come-on, Bessy old girl, don't give up the ghost on me now!" This he spoke to the engine as he again tried to turn it over, to no avail. His companion poked around inside the engine compartment, and yelled back "Try it now!" but the results were the same.

The flyer backed away and communicated to his commander. "It looks like we got another dead one," he stated, "shocking lousy place to go belly up, half way between hell and nowhere." He cupped his hand over the earpiece as he listened to his instructions, and then motioned to the other trucks to move on. The last of the trucks passed their fallen comrade and continued their laborious march down the road. When the dust had cleared, there was only the one truck left on the lonely road, with the two flyer escorts strategically placed at 6 and 9, hovering expectantly behind it.

"You got 20 minutes to make it work, or we're burning this load and moving you back to base," the flyer shouted at the driver.

"I'll get it! I'll get it!" the driver cried back anxiously. "Shock if they're gonna dock my pay for this load just cause some lousy flyboy is pissin' his pants . . ." he mumbled to himself, "c'mon Bessy . . ." He cranked at the starter once again. The engine groaned unresponsively. He leaned out of the driver's window and tried to see what his companion was doing, but he didn't seem to be doing much of anything. "Hey, Leonardo! Get the lead out man and let's get this heap moving! Leo? Leo?"

Leo, however, was far from being able to respond any more. His neck broken, the lifeless body was collapsed under the hood, hanging limply halfway out of the engine compartment. Doom had indeed found them. Moments before he had lain just beneath the surface of the road, holding his breath and maintaining his form in a state of physical intangibility as the trucks passed unknowingly over him. When his selected target arrived, he had latched onto the undercarriage, surreptitiously lifting himself from the dusty roadbed. By phasing through the vehicle's electrical system, he had disrupted those ancient circuits just enough to kill the engine. When the time was right, he had risen up out of the engine compartment in front of the amazed guardsman, and with one armored glove snapped the poor man's neck before he even had the chance to draw a breath to scream. Now Doom slipped silently between the rocky wall of the cut road and the passenger's side of the cab, neatly hidden from view of the flyers watching the road overhead. The cowl of his cape shrouded his mask, and his eyes glowed with the anticipation of battle. He leaned slightly in through the open window.

"Step out of the vehicle if you want to live," his cold, mechanical voice snapped the driver's attention directly back to the cab.

The driver's eyes went wide as he stared into the cold mask of Doom, but to his credit, he did not panic. "Shock me!" the driver cried out. Quick as a snake he reached for the laser weapon his companion had left on the seat beside him, pulling the trigger as he hastily pointed it in the direction of the door. The blast blew a massive hole in the metal door, literally ripping it from its hinges and scattering shrapnel into the rocky wall behind. But Doom was not there, and the driver brought the weapon back to his shoulder as he stared at the place where a body should have been.

Doom rose up through the floorboard in front of the driver, and as he became tangible again he grabbed the muzzle of that deadly weapon. Pivoting it easily around the driver, he pointed it out the door. The driver instinctively pulled the trigger, but as the weapon was now pointed away from Doom, this action succeeded only in blowing off the driver's side door, and sending a shearing hail of super heated shrapnel into the flyer who had descended to see what the hell was going on down there. The flyer went down, his vehicle irreparably crippled and his face and chest half torn away from the laser blast.

"Mayday! Mayday! We're under attack!" the remaining pilot hastily relayed his message to his companions in the retreating convoy, but all he got back was static. "Mayday!" he repeated anxiously, keeping his distance as he circled above the truck. "Oh my God, Ferguson's down, he's dead . . . somebody answer me!"

In the cab, Doom was locked in struggle with the driver, who was holding onto the laser weapon with all his might. In the cramped quarters of the truck cab, there was little Doom was able to do. Additionally, although he had phased through the floorboards of the cab to reach his adversary, his right foot had remained trapped underneath the truck. Two nights prior and unknown to him at the time, a virus had attached itself to the nanites, the microscopic computerized life forms that formed a link between his nervous system and the command codes of his wondrous armor. That techno-organic interface provided him with control over his outer form that was as smooth and as seamless as thought. Normally he would have been able to cause his armor and his body to become intangible, a process that didn't transform the matter that composed him but energized it on a sub-cellular level, interfacing his matter within and into a separate dimension, or "phasing" between here and now and somewhere else instantaneously. But when he had phased through the wave spider that attacked their camp, something had been transmitted between the alien genetically engineered life form, and his internal nanotechnology. Something: a virus, a glitch, a shudder of unknown consequences, had somehow communicated across the border less barrier between those disparate life forms, and he was only now beginning to realize how far his systems had been contaminated. He could feel his foot beginning to coalesce back into a solid form, and the first faint pinch of the metal floorboard resisting his slowly unyielding flesh. If his leg reformed completely now, it would be severed at the ankle, leaving his foot in the dusty earth beneath the truck. Mentally he struggled to maintain control over the phasing aspect of his armor while he wrestled with the driver for control of the vehicle.

The driver noted the armored attacker's plight as they fought for control of the deadly weapon. "Ahah!" he shouted, thinking that Doom was incapacitated. Still holding onto the laser rifle with one hand, he reached for the pistol at his belt.

In the dusty ruins of a walled city many miles away, a massive settlement of native peoples scratched a meager existence from the polluted earth. They were the Crow, and forsaken by the forward march of civilization, they had rejected all things of the modern world. A giant garbage heap outside of the city walls was witness to their contempt. The mile high mountain was a stinking pile of rusting cars, smashed computers, melted phones, card readers and disassembled holographic projectors. Inside the walls, buildings of glass and metal had also fallen to the whims of entropy, and were pointedly ignored by the milling populace below. The seats of government power from the past were empty shells of ruined brick and mortar. The real power here lay in the centuries-old mosque at the center of the city. Golden spires reached towards the heavens, and walls damaged by years of warfare were carefully propped up by wooden beams. The crumbling facade of the once ornate edifice struggled to reveal its grandeur once again to a new breed of adoring devotees, camped around the place of worship in self-sacrificing fanaticism, praying five times a day and glancing furtively through the open doorway at the slim prospect of glimpsing their savior.

Although the huge wooden doors to the mosque had all but burned away long ago, their blackened shells still hung grimly to massive metal hinges. Two burly guards stood watch at the gate, barring entrance to all but the most devout followers. Up the stone steps, two lean warriors bowed respectfully and silently passed their primitive weapons to the guardsmen. Their legs and arms were bare, and their deeply tanned skin glistened with dirt and sweat. Through that gate and inside the revered structure now, they forego even quenching their burning thirst at the bubbling fountain to kneel and bow on the cold tile floor. Across the immense open hallway, shards of yellow sunlight flickered over blue and white tile through tall, slender windows high upon the walls. Flowers and ornamental wreaths adorned the walls or were scattered about the floor, lending their aromatic fragrance to the sacred place. There was no sound inside save the tumbling water of the fountain, and white robed attendants floated silently along the edges of the hall, their trailing cloaks whispering through the dried leaves that littered the floor. At the altar was a single throne on a raised dais. Two cisterns on either side of that throne burned with smokeless eldritch fire, glowing green but shedding no light upon the dark and massive form that rested there. A single hand rose out of the darkness and motioned to the two petulant warriors.

"Enter." The voice was not raised, but boomed across the hall with unmistakable authority. The two warriors scrambled forward, bowing as they came, daring not to raise their eyes to their fearsome leader. They knelt in front of the altar and bowed their heads once again to the ground.

"Speak," the deep voice commanded.

Without raising his head, one of the warriors answered in a hoarse whisper. "We saw the armored one, traveling across the plains with two of the gypsies. He is searching for the others."

"Hmmm," the dark one mused. "The spirit of the Crow has found his companions in the sand. The others will soon be converted to the way, or they shall be dead. His quest is for naught."

"There is one other thing, Lord," the warrior offered. "He battled the spiders hand to hand, and killed two of them outright. The third was wounded but escaped."

The dark one stood from his throne in amazement. Bits of sunlight washed over him now, and his form was silhouetted against the white washed walls of the temple. He was a giant of a man, thick muscled and massive of chest and limb. His skin was as black and as taught as granite through and through, his head was shaved clean and the whites of his eyes glowed within his black face. He wore a vest of glittering beads and jewels that jangled delicately as he moved, swinging across his bare chest. A headband of red and gold adorned his forehead, and three large black feathers were sewn into this crown. Similar bands circled his bulging biceps. He reached for his staff, a golden scepter with rubies and diamonds inlaid along the head. He turned it to his loyal followers.

"Say to me the magic he wielded," he commanded, "or expose this Lie and be condemned!"

"It is true, Lord, I swear it!" the warrior's eyes were wide with fear and he bowed deeper.

The other warrior spoke, "The magic was in the gloves that he wore my Lord, and the green cloak that made him as a ghost. We saw this true; he spoke no spell to slay the beasts!"

"His power is indeed as great as legend has foretold. Find him!" he commanded forcefully, his voice rippling through the supplicants like a tidal wave. "Take all the warriors from the fields and the village and find him!"

"Lord Corbeau," one of the white robed attendants stepped close by his master's elbow. "The warriors have gathered at the eastern border where the guardsmen are fortifying their position. We must strike their outpost now, before they have opportunity to replenish their supplies. Surely that is of more importance now."

Corbeau's bright eyes turned to glare at his attendant with malevolence. Striking swift as a snake, he bludgeoned the servant's face with the bejeweled scepter, spraying blood as he broke the man's nose and brought him quivering to his knees. "I will say what is of importance!" Corbeau shouted. "The guardsmen are of no consequence! The gypsies will soon be buried! It is Doom who will decide the fate of the desert! Slay the armored one called Doom and bring me his heart so that I may feast upon his power and make his magic my own! Hear all ye warriors and spread the word!" He pointed to the beaten servant. "Let no one question the will of the Lord! Take him to where he may pray for guidance and enlightenment." Two other servants carried the beaten man away, and Corbeau faced the exhausted warriors. "Go now and do as I say. Find strength in the Lord, and let no man stand in your way!"

"Yes, Lord," the two warriors bowed again, foreheads touching the floor at their leader's feet.

On the plains of Banat, Doom had quite enough of the tenacious CG truck driver that battled him in the cramped cab of the disabled truck. For a moment, his anger was laid bare. As the driver reached for another weapon, Doom reversed his tactics and hurled the driver through the windshield and onto the raised hood. The driver's body crashed in a hail of broken glass against the metal hood, denting it and stunning the driver. Doom was about to turn his attention back to freeing his trapped foot when the other patrol flyer hovered low into view. Having ascertained that the comlink with his patrol further down the road was somehow severed, he dropped down to face their attacker. He recognized Doom, and for a moment their eyes met. Doom was quicker only by a fraction, blasting lasers from his gauntlet as the CG pilot peppered the cab of the truck with plasma fire, forcing Doom to duck down or risk damaging his already compromised defensive systems. The pilot's ship was winged by Doom's weapons, and he quickly retreated to better mount a counter attack against this formidable foe.

"Master!" breathless and dirty, Marcos appeared alongside the truck, crouching low to avoid detection.

Instantly, Doom directed the gypsy blacksmith to the fallen laser rifle. "Shoot down that flyer," he ordered. "He must not be allowed to report back to the rest of that patrol!"

Marcos scrambled for the laser rifle on the ground beside the truck. As he picked up the weapon, he raised his eyes to find he was looking into the sneering face of the driver, bloody but still alive as he writhed painfully atop the hood of the truck. The driver had a pistol in his hand, and he was aiming it at the gypsy's head. His eyes wide with fear, Marcos held his breath.

Then Doom was once again upon the driver, having at last freed his foot from the floorboards through a focused effort. As he knocked the driver's gun away, the flyer came around to the front of the truck once more. Marcos aimed for the flying ship, but the shot went wide. It was close enough however to cause the pilot to back off, and as he did he was grim witness to the brutal incineration of the CG driver at the hand of Doom. As the scorched carcass fell blackened and smoking onto the earth, the pilot decided upon another tactic. Gunning his engines at full throttle he rapidly retreated, dodging a hail of weapons fire from Doom's gauntlets and the laser rifle in Marcos's hands as he fled. Doom stood atop the hood of the truck as he watched the flyer disappear in the distance, retreating fast and out of range. His green cape swirled like his anger around him.

"Can you at least drive?" he proffered angrily, snatching the laser weapon from Marcos's hands.

"Aye, Master," Marcos offered sheepishly as the master cleared the rubble and bodies from the truck. Behind them, Uriel limped weakly towards the truck to join them.

"Then drive like a demon possessed," Doom ordered, reaching into the engine compartment to quickly undo the damage he had done. The engine started smoothly and he closed the hood with a resounding thud. "It won't take long for that patrol to track us down, once they find the courage to do so, and then we'll need all the weapons at our disposal to turn them back." Doom reached behind the cab and ripped off the green canvas that shrouded the contents of the truck bed. Inside were boxes of laser rifles, tri-phasic plasma weapons, rocket launchers, personnel armor, ammo, food, water and one big mother of a swivel mounted, long-range multi-pulse laser cannon. Doom helped Uriel into the back of the truck as he locked down the cannon's mounting plates and began to charge up the systems, using a power source scavenged from his own armor. Marcos quickly moved the truck off the road, maneuvering down a narrow path barely visible through the brush. The path turned into a passable road, and they escaped in a cloud of dust. As they hurried away, Uriel began to look increasingly feeble.

"Master," Uriel spoke quietly over the rumble of the truck, holding on to the sides for dear life with his one good hand.

Doom offered him a glance as he worked. He wondered to himself of the boy was going to make it. "We'll be there soon," was all he said.

"But, what happened, it was very strange," Uriel continued dreamily, "I've never known Marcos to miss . . ." His voice trailed off as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Whatever was the meaning of that half conscious muttering, it would have to wait, for no sooner had they begun to travel down the rough side road, then Doom heard the distant hum of the returning flyer patrol. The road they were on was in a narrow winding natural gorge, leading up away from the river. It kept them out of sight of the following patrol, but not for long. Once they reached the top of the ridgeline, they quickly broke through the cover of tall canyon walls and began to descend into the valley flatlands. In the distance ahead of them, the horizon shimmered with the glare of a great field of shifting white sand dunes. Facing back to the rear, Doom readied the plasma cannon. He aimed at the notch through which they had passed. Sheer cliffs rose on either side of the cut road as it exited the river canyon road from the other side, and as the flyer patrol followed the path of the stolen vehicle, they were neatly framed between those rocky walls. They knew it almost as soon as they appeared there. A relentless barrage of cannon fire blasted into the flyer patrol from the fleeing truck, forcing an immediate retreat. Some of the patrol that escaped the initial assault was crushed by tons of rubble cascading from the rocky walls. The cliffs collapsed covering and blocking the old road behind them. Explosions echoed across the valley, matched by the sound of screaming metal and billowing black smoke.

Doom looked up from his weapon, puffs of plasma heat trailing from the barrel of the cannon. In the distance he could see some of the flyers darting back and forth across the mess he had made, but they did not follow. He eyed them with contempt as he methodically disconnected himself from the deadly weapon. Satisfied that they would not follow for some time, he pounded on the roof of the cab for Marcos to continue. Marcos stole a brief glance back at the destruction, and then ground the old truck into gear as they drove onward toward the shimmering sea of sand.

In Latveria, the day was once again ending but the night was just beginning for the new inhabitants of that storybook country. The wave spiders had gathered in a strange ritual, facing the middle of a circle they created with their bodies. At the center of that circle, a lone female spider spun and shook, tapping her forelegs and buzzing translucent wings. She was the lone survivor of an earlier attack upon Doom and his gypsy companions, and her dance was a means of communication. In this way, she told the story of how her mate had been killed by a human in glistening armor. She touched the other spiders with hairy mouthparts in an emotional caress, pleading for revenge. The soldier spiders buzzed among themselves, and that buzzing spread throughout the circle, and soon infected the entire colony. In moments, a massive black armada of alien creatures filled the night sky above Latveria with an unnatural roar of buzzing wings and clattering exoskeletons.

**END CHAPTER 2 **

"_**Boldly they rode and well,**_

_**Into the jaws of Death,**_

_**Into the mouth of Hell . . ."**_

_**Alfred Tennyson, from "The Charge of the Light Brigade"**_

DS

June 30, 1996


	3. Chapter 3 Through a Glass Darkly

DOOM 2099: The Beckoning

_Gypsy, Sorcerer, Scientist, King ..._ The man the 20th century vilified and called Doctor Doom has traveled to the year 2099 where the superheroes that once thwarted his plans at world conquest are no more. But his once pristine country of Latveria has been reduced to an inhospitable pool of toxic sludge by a madman wielding unearthly powers. Now Doom must renew his power from abroad in the strange new world of the future and in the realm of computer cyberspace, all while asserting his right to rule as ... DOOM 2099!

CHAPTER 3: Through a Glass Darkly.

The dark, hulking wreck looming out of the white sands drew the two men to it like moths to a flame. They carefully circled the quiet metallic object, motionless now and half buried by the constantly blowing sands. Intermittent spurts of white steam spit sporadically from underneath the dented hood. Both doors had been blown off of the battered truck in a horrific battle, but there was no sign of a battle here. Instead, the hastily abandoned supply truck appeared to have died of natural causes.

The two Crow warrior scouts approached closer, searching warily among the shifting dunes for any sign of ambush. The truck was unoccupied. They examined the boxes jumbled in the back of the truck bed, sniffing like wild animals. If they could read the inscriptions on the crates, they gave no indication. Hastily digging into the supplies, heavy boxes of weapons were thrown with recklessness upon the sand, exposing their deadly contents, but the laser rifles were pointedly ignored. The warriors kept their preferred tools of war close at hand: primitive bows, spears, and axes, were strapped to their bare backs with leather belts or coarse rope. The two men continued to sift through the wreckage. The massive plasma cannon was also ignored; it was nothing but a worthless hunk of metal without a power source. They cared only for the food, buried deep among the other supplies. When they found it, they tore into the military rations ravenously, fighting briefly between themselves like monkeys before settling down upon their haunches to eat while nervous eyes continued to scan the bare horizon. When they had eaten their fill, they stood upon the truck and howled like dogs, claiming the truck for the Crow. In the distance, a barely visible train of a hundred or more warriors emerged from the sand to march single file toward their new prize.

A short distance from the truck, behind a tall dune spotted with dry bunches of grass, Doom carefully watched as the Crow warring party claimed and began to consume their prize. Marcos and Uriel lay on the sand beside him, taking turns to peer anxiously through the binoculars Marcos carried. They had no need to worry yet, for all trace of their tracks had been neatly removed by the blowing winds. Still, it would be wise to remain undetected, and out here among the bare dunes that task became increasingly difficult as the Crow warriors continued to relentlessly patrol the desert.

"It is fortunate that they seem uninterested in the weapons," Doom muttered softly. He watched the warring party in the distance from behind the two gypsies, crouched low as he knelt upon one knee, his cloak carefully contained against the swirling winds in his armored glove.

"They will burn the weapons rather than use them," Marcos stated. He passed the binoculars to Uriel. "They have no use for modern technology."

Uriel peered through the ancient eyepieces at bare feet trampling exotic weapons, paying the guns little heed as they slowly disappeared underfoot into the roiling sands. He carried one of the same rifles himself, and five more beside him were carefully wrapped in a canvas sack. He was too weak still to carry more, but food and drink had improved his color since the night before. His wounded arm was numb and all but useless, but at least it was now wrapped in clean bandages. "They could arm every man down there with what we left at the truck," Uriel sighed. "The rest of the tribe sure could use those weapons."

"It can't be helped at this point," Doom intoned quietly. "When I locate the remainder of the gypsies, I will send a patrol out to see what we can recover." He took a moment to glance briefly around the horizon. Behind them to the west, a distant range of mountains rose like a purple curtain in the desert. "You say that the gypsy caravans were headed toward that sharp notch in the Dinaric?" He pointed to a barely visible U-shaped indentation at the middle of the high range. It was so far in the distance as to be nearly unreachable, now that they no longer had the truck upon which to ride.

Uriel turned around, still staying low in the sand. "Yes, Master," he answered. "The elders believed we would find passage through . . ." He gasped audibly. "My Lord! Your leg! Are you wounded?"

Doom glanced down to his armored knee as Uriel pointed. There, in the joints of the metal armor, a thin white stream, like a trickle of milk, was slowly trailing out of his armor. The phenomenon was not limited to his knee, either. Several other joints in his armor were experiencing the same malfunction. Doom allowed the strange trickle to leak over his fingers, and he raised his metal glove to his face to examine the white liquid substance closely. "Hmmm, interesting," was all he said.

"Master, what is it?" Marcos asked.

"It appears that the nanites are leaving my system, driven out by the virus from the wave spiders," he stated calmly. The white liquid streams dripped slowly into the sand, and disappeared. "This is somewhat . . . inconvenient," he finished cryptically. His calm tone gave no indication of the depths of the calamity he now faced.

"Does it hurt?" Uriel backed away from where the liquid slowly dripped into the sand, suddenly uneasy at the prospect of contact with microscopic genetically engineered life forms.

"Hurt? No, it is annoying at best. Some of my armor systems are being affected," Doom spoke to his gypsy companions as he also ran a systems-wide diagnostic check. "The armor will function for some time without serious effect, but it is imperative that we locate the gypsy train as soon as possible. We must leave now, while the Crow are occupied scavenging from our truck."

Without further discussion or a glance backwards, Doom headed down the sandy dune.

Staying low, Uriel and Marcos quietly gathered their belongings and quickly followed.

"Master," Marcos hurried to catch up to Doom's long strides, "this is insane, Master!" He breathlessly walked a short distance behind, gesturing desperately under the load of weapons he carried. "We're bound to be detected by the Crow at any turn! We will have no cover out here on the sand! We should wait until nightfall at least."

"The matter is not subject to debate. My concern is to find the gypsy caravan, nothing more."

"There are too many Crow warriors in that patrol, and we're the main course on the menu!" Marcos flanked Doom defensively. "We should head south, closer to the CG patrols where we'll be safer. Circle around the Alps and meet the gypsies on the coast."

"That is not my intent," Doom paused for only a moment to stare into the face of his gypsy brethren with fierce anger. "You are welcome to go your own way, alone," he threatened.

"That would be suicide!"

"So be it, but I will brook no further delay in finding the gypsies," Doom answered dangerously. "Go your own way or follow me, I will entertain no other options. Unless you wish for me to hasten the inevitable and end your suffering here and now!"

Before Marcos could answer that cold stare, Uriel interrupted, "Master, look!" he shouted, pointing toward the top of a high dune far behind them. Four Crow warriors stood atop that sandy plateau, calmly looking directly at the fleeing gypsies. They were tall and gaunt, darkly tanned and nearly naked, leaning casually on long wooden spears. They were joined by a fifth man, small and haggard, bent with age but with strength in his bony arms. His hair was as white as the blistering sand. The old man carried a bow, and as they watched he calmly reached into the quiver at his back for an arrow.

Marcos gasped with fear and lifted the plasma rifle to his shoulder to aim at the distant party, but Doom restrained him. A heavy metal hand on the barrel lowered the weapon from its target.

"Save your energy packs," Doom ordered solemnly. "They are out of range." And the Crow warriors knew it, as they stood quietly on the hilltop, invoking waves of fear in their enemies. Doom regarded them with a cold eye for a moment, then turned his back to them disdainfully as he continued on his trek.

"An arrow?" Uriel asked, puzzled, "how could they hope to . . . ?" He followed Doom closely, but he dared not remove his eyes from those stoic warriors behind them. The warriors remained unmoving. The old man dipped the head of a handmade arrow into a bag of ointment he carried in a pouch at his side. The thick gooey substance glowed a vibrant green around the chiseled black stone of the primitive arrowhead, and it seemed to have a life of it's own as it writhed in wicked anticipation upon the head of the weapon. The old man raised the arrow, stretching the bow to its limit. He let it go, and the arrow soared into the air high above the blowing sands. For a moment, Uriel lost sight of the arrow in the sun, then it appeared, suddenly closer than it should have been and seemingly gathering momentum. The eerie green substance at the arrow's head billowed about in defiance of the air movements, and was reaching as the arrow was toward its target.

"Master!" Uriel screamed finally. "The arrow! It's impossible!"

Doom turned and caught sight of the arrow at last, alas too late. The arrow had indeed broken all laws of physics to gather momentum and to change course and direction of its own accord. His armor systems began an immediate analysis, relaying information and processing data in less than a nanosecond, but it was too slow as the arrow sliced through the air toward his heart. His first salvo of weapons' fire directed at the arrow was instinctual and immediate, and ineffectual. The arrow soared past an astonished Uriel at a frightening pace. In the next instance Doom knew that no mere technology would halt this forward progression, and as he leaped aside from the pursuing specter, he summoned his own mystic shielding. Again, too late. The shield was only half-formed, it did not stop the arrow from reaching its target, but it did deflect it. The mystically enchanted arrow cut through his adamantium-lanxide armor as if it were paper, and pierced his left leg just above the knee, deep into the muscle and narrowly missing bone. The head of the arrow penetrated through to the other side of his leg.

"Arrghh!" Doom yelled angrily, falling back onto the sand. The black stone head of the arrow still glowed with that unearthly green slime, and quivered as if still reaching for Doom's heart.

"Master! How is this possible?" Uriel cried as he leapt to his master's side.

"Magic," Doom growled angrily. He glared at Marcos. "You failed to inform me that the Crow were magic users, fool!" he yelled.

Marcos' complexion turned white with fear. "Magic? I swear, I never . . ." he mumbled.

"Shocking freaks!" he yelled, dropping to one knee and opening fire onto the distant warriors. "Shocking freaks! Shocking bloodsucking ratbiters!" he yelled as he fired again and again. But as Doom had predicted, the Crow warriors were well out of reach. "Hold your fire, imbecile!" Doom ordered curtly, "you'll fell no enemies that way."

Grimly, Doom grasped the head of the arrow in his hand, breaking it off from the wooden shaft. He held it tightly in his hand as the living magic reached for his heart, then a quickly spoken spell sent the deadly weapon to another dimension with a puff of crimson smoke. He pulled the wooden shaft from his leg, and equally crimson blood began to flow freely now from the terrible wound.

"Master! Another!" Uriel warned, pointing to the sky.

Indeed, another arrow had been launched their way, but Doom was prepared. As the weapon approached, Doom summoned the magic to stop it in mid-flight, inches from its target. "NOT, this time," he stated slowly through gritted teeth, and with a raised hand he turned the weapon around. "Go back to your masters," he commanded, "and take a little something to show my gratitude!" The arrow took off as he shooed it away, climbing into the sky toward the distant dune where the Crow warriors gathered. As Uriel helped Doom to his feet, the gypsies heard the distant cries of fear and dismay, followed by the sound of a fiery explosion on the horizon. The warriors that had pursued them disappeared from view in a haze of smoke and sand. "Quickly now," Doom ordered, steadying himself bravely on his wounded leg as he pushed Uriel away. "Let us delay no further."

"No," Marcos stated grimly, stepping to face Doom and leveling his weapon at the armored leader's face. "We'll go no further into this hellish desert. I'm calling the shots now."

"Marcos! What are you doing?" Uriel cried in dismay.

"He is finally showing his true colors, my friend," Doom answered calmly.

"Shut up!" Marcos yelled, threatening with his weapon. "Drop the guns, Uriel. We're going south. Now!"

"I am surprised, Marcos," Doom continued drily. "What of the gypsies? Won't your leaders be disappointed that you failed to locate the remaining gypsies?"

"You'll be prize enough for now, "Marcos answered coldly. "The rest are either dead or they soon will be."

"Marcos! I don't understand! We were brothers . . ." Uriel pleaded pathetically.

"We were never brothers, Uriel."

"He is a traitor, Uriel," Doom interjected, "a spy. One of the guardsmen, with a communications implant that he activates when the satellites pass overhead. I've been experiencing feedback from your cyber systems since we first met. I suspect that you were contacting your allies a few moments ago."

"That's right," Marcos said. "And a few klicks south of here we'll join the patrol that's been shadowing us. I'll not spend another night in this hellhole with the Crow using magic and Thor knows what else."

"But Marcos," Uriel protested, quieter now, but still confused. "I've known you for years, how could you betray us?"

"The Marcos you knew died five years ago! Now move it!" Marcos threatened again with his weapon toward Doom. "Your armor is damaged, you're wounded, and even you haven't the power to resist a plasma discharge at this range!"

Doom ignored the warning, and stepped forward. "Genetic engineering, eh? Impressive work to fool the clans for so long."

Marcos stepped back warily. "The guardsmen employ none but the best. Step back, Doom! I'm not afraid to fire!"

Doom stepped forward defiantly, forcing Marcos back again. "How much did the original Marcos contribute to your behavioral programs?"

"Enough to where it didn't matter anymore, he had no surviving relatives left. Fooling the others was simple," Marcos steadied his footing in the sandy soil.

"And you continued to spy for the Guardsmen after Tiger Wylde was disposed of," Doom intoned calmly, stepping forward again.

Marcos shuffled back again, but did not lower the weapon. "The gypsies were always involved in illicit activities; they have been an annoyance that required constant vigilance. The Guardsmen did not rely solely on Tiger Wylde for leadership." He backed away another step. "I'm warning you, Doom . . . !"

"And I'm warning you! I will suffer no attack by a traitorous pawn such as you!" Doom lunged forward suddenly, snatching the weapon deftly from Marcos' hand, as the spy fired his weapon in a wasted plasma burst into the sky. Despite his injury, Doom was surprisingly agile, and his confidence was supreme. Marcos tripped as he stumbled backwards once again, collapsing onto the sand. Doom turned the weapon back upon the spy, then suddenly stopped, lowering the weapon and handing it back to Uriel.

"What . . . ? What's happening?" Marcos cried out, looking around and scratching wildly at the sand. He was slowly sinking, dropping into a deep, invisible hole in the sand. The sand opened up like a giant maw around his body, grabbing at his legs first and sucking them down into the unforgiving depths. "Help! Uriel! Somebody help me!" Marcos scratched at the sand around him, desperately clawing for a solid hand hold. His legs kicked inside the cloying closeness to no effect.

"Nobody will help you now, traitor," Doom stated callously. He handed the sack of weapons to Uriel, and directed the gypsy to walk away. "Perhaps if you are patient and don't move around too much, the next satellite will be overhead and you can radio your friends for assistance."

"That's not for another two hours and you know it, Doom!" Marcos growled softly, now having sunk to his waist in the sucking substrate.

"A shame, really," Doom walked away. He looked to the distant horizon behind them.

"You could always try yelling for help; maybe the Crow will want to assist you."

"Doom! They're cannibals, Doom! You can't let me die like this! I can help you!" Marcos struggled against the sand, waving his hands to try to stay afloat as Doom walked away, ignoring the desperate cries.

"Keep moving, don't look back," Doom ordered Uriel at the top of the dune. The two moved out of sight of their now sinking companion. It was a little longer still before they could no longer hear his cries.

"I'll kill you, Doom! I swear it! The Guardsmen are going to have your head on a pike! You hear me, Doom! You'll burn for this . . . !"

It was early evening when the Lieutenant of the CG Patrol reported back to his Captain at the outpost dubbed by its jaded occupants as "Lucifer's Gate". The sky over the distant desert lands was turning a brilliant pink and orange, but the Captain of the guardsmen barely noticed as he chomped on an ancient stogie and poured over the areas' logistic maps on holo-display. So intent was he on his studies that he didn't notice his new Lieutenant standing at attention at the doorway. A few minutes later he looked up, then motioned the man to come in. "We don't stand much on formality out here in the wastelands, LT," the Captain ordered quietly. "Get on in here before you become a target."

"Yes sir," the Lieutenant responded, stepping quickly inside.

"Your report?"

"We've lost contact with operative 42, sir."

The Captain rubbed tired eyes. "What's the latest recon on the gypsies' hideout?"

"Inconclusive. The gypsies ambushed a patrol at sector seven bravo, but we have yet to get a triangulation with statistical certainty."

"Forget the statistical certainty, son."

"Sir?"

"Can we get close? Can we get close enough to smell those stinking pusbags? Cause if I can smell 'em I can find 'em. An' if I can find 'em I can blow them all to hell and wipe them and their shocking armored freak of a historical anomaly off of the face of the planet once and for all!"

The Lieutenant paused for a moment, then answered, "Yes, sir. We can get reasonably close, Captain."

Darkness had settled over the sand desert, and far from any visible human settlement, two figures lay prostrate and motionless atop a tall dune, the perpetual winds steadily blowing sand over their quiet bodies. Lying unwillingly on his back in the cooling sands, Doom once again struggled to rise. He lifted himself to his elbows, pushed upwards as if against a tremendous weight, then fell back again with a frustrated sigh. Forced into this unnatural repose, he watched the stars peeking through the thin clouds high above one by one. A few meters behind him, Uriel too had collapsed upon the dune, unconscious, exhausted and spent from struggling through the soft sand for hours without end. Doom had carried the boy as far as he could, before he too had succumbed to the endless sand. Blood was caked on the armor around Doom's left leg, and although he had attempted to staunch the bleeding, every step he took had opened up a new trickle. The leg had become useless earlier that day, and the blood loss had weakened his resolve. The final insult: his gleaming armor also was no longer functioning. The interface between his nervous system and cyber circuitry was quiet, ravaged by the alien virus. The nanites were silent, dead now, or deserted, or possibly hibernating within a protected program. The wondrous armor which was as light as a second skin when operational, now felt cold and as heavy as stone. He was tired, weary to the bone and spent of all his energies. They had trudged for hours on end through the unyielding sand, but they came upon no sign of the gypsy caravan. Could his instincts have been wrong? Were they gone? Had the gypsies chosen a different path, been killed, or scattered to the four winds? What was it that had driven him this way with such certainty? He could not remember. All he could do now was lie in the soft sand, with nauseating waves of feverish hallucinations washing over him. Maybe if he let himself dream once more, it would come to him . . . NO! He dared not close his eyes! For if he slept he may never again wake, so despite his fatigue he kept his eyes open, focusing on the distant stars. Focus! Stay alert! Listen! Listen to the sound of the wind, and of soft feet scraping along the sand.

A shadow suddenly blotted out the stars. A head, cloaked, bent close over his still form.

Bright eyes peered down onto his armored mask.

With agonizing slowness, Doom reached up out of the darkness and grasped for the neck of the shadow with a single metal glove. Despite his weakened state, his grip was fierce and unrelenting. His hand squeezed tight around the visitor's throat.

"Ackkk," was all the man could say at first, as his hands clawed at the metal gauntlet. Then he choked out a few words in Romany, the gypsy tongue. "Master," Jake said with hoarse whisper, "please don't kill me. We've come to rescue you!" Doom released his savage hold slowly, and struggled to recognize this young man through the darkness. Then there were other voices swirling around him from near and far.

"Uriel is here," one voice shouted quietly. Then a short light flashed over him, and more urgent whispering. He felt himself being lifted gently from the sand, and carried between two strong cloaked figures. He could hear their guns clanging softly against their backs as they moved. He felt no threat among these unfamiliar voices, and so not knowing exactly where he was going but trusting in the Fates, he let his consciousness finally drift away.

When Doom awoke again it was in a strange place, but there was light and warmth and the familiar trappings of his gypsy kin all around. He could see a small window above the bed where he lay, and the flag of Latveria dutifully propped in the far corner. His wounded leg was bandaged, the bleeding stopped. Medical apparatus lay about a table near the bed, but there was no sign of Vox, the boy healer who had once before saved his life. Another boy, tall and lanky, sat in a chair near the door, and when Doom stirred the adolescent was immediately at his side. "Lay still, Master," Jake said quietly, "and I'll tell Gavril that you are awake."

"Wait," Doom ordered hoarsely, "where am I?"

"The Hidden City," Jake answered. "We're safe here, don't worry. We found you no more than fifty meters from the dome. But you've lost a lot of blood, so Gav says you should rest."

"Uriel . . . ?"

"He's gonna be ok. We got him too. He told us about the others, and Marcos." Jake showed him the weapon he carried. "We picked up a ton of these from the supply truck you hijacked. They're so jagged! Those Crow won't mess with us now!"

Doom looked puzzled. "How long have I been out?"

"Almost two days," Jake answered, "but don't worry . . ."

"Two days!" Doom pushed himself up, slowly swinging his legs off of the bed. His wounded leg throbbed painfully, but he ignored it.

"The Crow warriors were massing for a major attack, and the Collective Guardsmen have been alerted to our presence," Doom stated, groggy but forcing his mind to clear. He ran an internal systems check on his armor as he spoke, and still found no sign of the nanites. "I need a computer, some tools, and cable. And a generator."

Jake scratched his head. "Most of the tribes left with only what they could carry, but we may be able to scavenge some of those from the city. This is stale ware though, nothing new tech. We'll be lucky to find anything with enough useable memory still intact to do much of anything."

"Get what you can, and bring it here."

"Yes, Master," Jake answered as he headed out the door. He was met by Gavril as he left, who was followed close behind by Larinda. "Oh! He's awake!" he informed the elders, stopping only a moment before he hurried out.

Gavril entered the room, chomping on his pipe as he did and eyed Doom with a careful and thoroughly un-intimidated glare. "You should be lying down!" he exclaimed. "And remove that armor so we can get some fluids in you!"

"Don't order me, old man," Doom stated with foul temper. "You know who I am."

"Yes, I do, Young Man! But I'm your doctor! And if you're to be our savior as Larinda predicts you're going to lie down and do as you're told or you won't be saving nobody!" Gavril reached for an IV bottle and placed it on a stand near the bed. "Now get that armor off of your right arm so I can do my job!"

Doom eyed the gaunt old man with grudging respect. He did not lie down, but did remove his gauntlet so the healer could administer fluids through an IV. As Gavril worked, Doom turned his attention to the small woman who had quietly entered the room behind him. "Where is Vox? Is Fortune here? Are there any Zefiro here?" he asked her impatiently.

Larinda shook her head solemnly. "No, the Zefiro were at the other side of the valley when the wave spiders struck, there are none that made it out with our caravan. We number two hundred and fifty here, gypsies from all of the various clans, and we have been awaiting your arrival." And so Larinda told him of their flight from Latveria, and how they had discovered the Hidden City within the sand. She also told him of their plight, their efforts to cross the Dinaric Alps, and how her visions had predicted that he would save them.

"I am not your savior," Doom intoned callously. "I came here in search of the Zefiro, and now that journey seems to have been in vain. You will have to find your own way through the mountains."

Gavril eyed the old woman with quiet absolution. "So it ends here," he muttered.

"No," Larinda persisted, then turned again to Doom. "My grandfather used to tell me stories of a great healer within the Zefiro. A man who tended all men and all creatures with the same kindness and respect he showed to his Zefiro kin. He was compassionate to a fault, dedicated to his craft and mindful that his talents were bestowed upon him by the gods themselves. He denied his gift to no man or child based on their race or their clan. Even when his healing arts cost him his own life, his thoughts were for nothing but the welfare of his fellow man. You know of whom I speak. His name was Werner Von Doom! He was your father."

Doom glared angrily at the small woman, displaying a horrific visage in that cold mask that could freeze the blood of brave men. "I am not the man my father was," he intoned sharply. "I have forged my own way, a path far from that ever dreamed by my father in his time. Use his name thus at your peril, Seer! Dare not speak it against me again!"

Larinda was silent for a moment, gathering her courage under the blistering attack of this formidable monarch. "You seek only the Zefiro?" she began quietly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That is no concern of yours. Suffice it to say that they have something which I need."

"I can find them for you."

"What? How do you even know that they live?"

"I have seen them, in my dreams."

"When?"

"Recently. It seems that they have escaped the attack of the spiders, as did we."

"Where are they? Tell me now!"

"No."

"You dare, old woman!" Doom ripped the IV needle from his arm and jumped from the bed, showing no sign of the pain that effort cost him. "You try my patience old crone! If you have seen the Zefiro, you will share that information with me now!"

Larinda held her ground. "We will make a bargain. You will save the gypsies here, leading them to safety. When that is done, I will share the visions I have had with you." Larinda stared up at the mask that towered above her fearlessly.

"I could make your life miserable, Seer," Doom announced coldly. "I am not without my own power. It would be unwise to toy with me."

"Oh, I believe you truly," Larinda answered calmly. "But I am an old woman, with many years on my heart, and much loss." Larinda clasped her breast melodramatically and sighed heavily. "I have little left to lose, except my life. And if I were to die, my visions would die with me."

Doom leaned against the bedpost behind him thoughtfully, the slight trace of a smile crossing his lips unseen beneath his iron mask. "I see. It seems that the gypsies of this time lack not in either guile or bravery. What makes you think you can trust me?"

"The Doom of legend was known to be an honorable man," Larinda praised quietly. "I trust it to be so still."

"Very well, you have your bargain," Doom announced. "But trust this also: the Doom of legend was not to be crossed. That holds true for this Doom as well."

Larinda smiled in quiet acceptance. She spat on her hand and extended it to shake. "So the deal is spoken, so shall it be sealed." She held her hand out fearlessly.

Doom paused, awestruck by both her guile and her courage. This tiny frail woman stood before him undeterred. It was no wonder these gypsies had survived, with a spirit this colossal at their head. She still stood with her hand extended. "So it shall be," he finally answered, and symbolically spat upon his own palm, clasping her tiny hand in his.

Larinda grinned silently, nodded and bowed respectfully as she turned to leave. As she did left the tiny infirmary, Jake again rushed past her in the doorway.

"Master, I found a computer!" Jake approached Doom and dropped a computer in his hands. It was a small key-less display device, no bigger than his hand, with a tiny fruit symbol embossed on the plastic housing. Doom eyed it with undisguised contempt. "Try to find something larger, boy," was all he said as he dropped the computer in the wastebasket beside him.

Within hours, he did indeed have something larger. Jake had marshaled all of the gypsy children to scour the crumbling buildings of the Hidden City, and every intact system within a kilometer had been carried, carted or dragged to the doorway of the little stucco house that the elders had converted into their central headquarters. Several hours later, Doom had constructed a diagnostic apparatus that filled an entire room, with cables and wiring strung in seeming random order from one system motherboard to another. It was ugly, but it was suitable for his needs. Connecting his armor systems to this ungodly array, he began the tedious chore of repairing his systems as he searched for the nanites that were crucial to its function. Jake and his friends Lukas and Goran assisted him, checking monitors and making critical adjustments. Marissa stood at the doorway to the cramped room, leaning quietly against the jam as Doom appeared bound by living cables in the center of the room. She was alternately concerned by the seriousness of the Master's condition, and entranced by his magical inventiveness and irrepressible presence. She watched in captivated fascination, and did not say a word.

"This prog is skragged, Master," Jake was saying, "It looks like a total rewrite."

"Not an essential system," Doom answered, guiding himself through his armor's internal programs with a separate part of his consciousness. "Move on to the next site."

Gavril squeezed carefully into the room, took one quick look around and said, "Harumph," as he jammed his ever present pipe back into his mouth. "You wanted to see me, Lord Doom?"

"Yes, Uriel has informed me that you used an anti-viral medicine on his infection," Doom asked, continuing to adjust the hardware that surrounded him. "Tell me about it."

"Found it on accident really," Gavril explained. "Once we figured the infections we were seeing weren't a result of the necrovirus. Not quite a simple infection, but treatable. The wave spiders don't actually carry the necrovirus, they're just immune to it. Once they depleted the supply they used for the attack, they did not produce anymore. Their skeletons however are contaminated with other alien viral agents. Any kind of cut from the spiders caused a nasty infection, lethal in a couple of cases. Once we developed a serum, recovery was complete."

"Get me a sample of that serum," Doom commanded, "together with the information stored in my armor it may prove useful." Gavril nodded and left the room.

"Master, I've found something . . ." Jake interrupted.

Marissa felt her heart skip a beat at Jake's hopeful tone. She held her breath. There was silence as Doom scanned the system. "That's it," he said unemotionally, "begin self-repair and multiplication protocols. Transfer nanites into motor systems. Weapons and defense systems prepare for back-up."

There was a sudden burst of noise, voices raised in agitation from the outer room. Marissa moved aside as someone else moved past the doorway into the room. It was Tobias, the patrol commander, who now stepped into the room. "Lord Doom," he stated, "we're surrounded."

From the highest access point on the crystal dome above the Hidden City, Doom and a handful of gypsy soldiers stared out across the desolate sands. They stood upon a rickety scaffold, erected on the roof of a thirty-story building that reached all but a few feet from the top of the two meter thick, glass-like shield above the city. From a hole large enough for only two people to stand inside of at the same time, from the outside of the dome they appeared to be poking just their heads out of the sand, but their vantage point was high enough to scan the horizon for miles around. The morning mist was just beginning to lift from the sands, but the dilemma before them was clear. Hundreds if not thousands of Crow warriors were gathered in a milling, chanting circle that extended for miles all around the sand shrouded dome. Their circle was tightening as the gypsies watched, moving ever closer to the Hidden City. And as it moved closer, the chanting and dancing of the warrior Crow grew even more frenzied. Having seen enough, Doom ducked back down into the breach. Jake and the other gypsies that were crouching outside on the sand quickly followed.

Once down from the scaffold, Doom addressed Tobias. "How many openings in the dome have you found?"

"A dozen so far, but there may be more" Tobias answered. "Two are large enough for the trucks, and at least one is inaccessible from above without a rope."

"Leave the east gate open, and one other as a back door. Seal all of the rest that you can, and place an armed guard at the remainder," Doom ordered as he looked out at the remains of the underground city. The newly recovered nanites had restored his mobility, and they were replicating rapidly within a self-healing program. Only time would tell now as to how long it would take for his weapons and defense systems to return to full capacity. "Every man, woman and child that can shoot straight should be armed."

"Master, we can't use laser weapons inside the dome," Jake answered for Tobias. "The surface is too reflective."

Doom nodded in acknowledgment. "We'll use the plasma guns inside, but there are only a few replacement ammo packs so use them sparingly. Distribute the remainder of the weaponry accordingly. Concentrate your main forces at the east gate, and stay there till I give the order to retreat."

"Retreat? To where?" Tobias hid his anger, mindful of the consequences that befell anyone who questioned the word and the will of Doom.

"I'll worry about that." Doom looked across the city one more time. There was something that he recognized about this place, something from the past, but the picture had been altered so much that he couldn't place it. Confident that it would come to him when the time was right, he turned to go.

"Master," Jake asked quietly when they were alone on the steps, "do you think we can survive?"

"If the Fates allow it, son," was Doom's cold reply as he made his way down from the roof of the lifeless building.

They had little time to prepare, but the gypsies scurried about the city with the seriousness of their situation well in mind. The western edge of the city was considered to be the safest, and so the young children and the elderly and weak gathered there. Marissa was there too, and though she had resisted it, Jake had insisted that she take his rifle. So armed, but not sure that she was ready to fight, she had vowed to protect Larinda and the children. All around her the people were tense and agitated, but the worldly elder of the clans seemed unshakable in the face of this imminent tragedy. Larinda sat calmly with the children, telling them stories of the gypsy clans as if this was nothing but another outing in the park. Besides Marissa, only one other armed man, Jake's friend Goran, was selected to protect their little group. She looked warily at the covered sky above them, and she wondered if that would be enough. She said a small prayer for Jake, who was somewhere near the east gate, fighting alongside the other soldiers. Then she wondered what Doom was doing.

To the gypsies huddled in the darkness, the most frightening thing was the deep, rhythmic pounding. The Crow had found the crystal dome, and were banging against the hard surface with hammers and poles and any other weapon they carried. Some of the gypsies gathered near the surface of the crystal could see the hammer blows connecting through the glass where the sand had been swept away. Thousands of bare feet hammered against the exterior, but the walls that had stood unbroken for decades held firm against this first tide. Then, the methodical advance of the Crow discovered the holes.

As the Crow warriors dropped through the openings into the city, their painted faces blistered with rage and madness, the gypsies did what they could to prevent them from going any further. A hail of bullets and plasma fire greeted each warrior that fell or crawled through the glass. A fatal fall of a hundred meters greeted some two dozen others, before the warriors above began to avoid that particular entrance. At the east gate, the dead bodies that littered the entrance formed a putrid pile that began to serve the following warriors as a gruesome barricade from which to hurl stones and arrows and minor magic spells at the defending gypsies. It was from this open gate in the sand that the gypsies first saw the wave spiders. A massive armada of airborne spiders descended from the clouds above onto the conflagration in the sand like demons from hell. Their alien bodies blackened the sky like the night. Their unearthly screeches deafened the sounds of war. Whatever their original purpose, the melee of men below them overwhelmed and enticed the flying spiders, for here was a chance at last to feed! Rocket-like descents upon the Crow warriors ended with bodies skewered like so much meat onto bony talons. Diving and rising into the air, they swooped and slaughtered the Crow warriors in a bloody, boiling feeding frenzy. The gypsy fighters at the east gate did not shrink back from this attack despite their terror, and they met the wave spiders with an impenetrable defense whenever they flew near. The laser weapons had little effect on that thick armor, but it must have stung a little, for the spiders quickly retreated to easier pickings outside. For a moment it seemed that the tide had turned in the gypsy's favor. Then the unthinkable happened.

It was Marissa who saw the first one, crouched behind a low wall in the distance and making unearthly sounds. She approached him slowly from behind, still some distance away, and raised the rifle. His bare back and bony arms marked him as one of the Crow with certainty, but she did not fire right away. She was scared, but curious. "What is he doing?" she thought absently. Then as if he had heard her thoughts, he lifted his head. He had killed a small animal, one of the goats, and was eating it raw. He was covered in blood, and beneath that repulsive mask the skin around his eyes was painted with a startling white design. To Marissa, he looked like a beast from hell, and she was momentarily petrified, but as the warrior turned to charge at her she instinctively pulled the trigger of the rifle. The bullet struck the wall beside him with a disheartening ping, and the maniac did not so much as pause in his murderous advance. Then Goran was beside her, alerted by the sharp report of the weapon, and he did not miss. Shivering with a sudden chill as she watched the dead man fall, she could not shake a frightening sense of foreboding. Then they saw a massive flood of Crow warriors, brandishing weapons and racing toward them from some unseen break in the walls far behind them. There were too many! "Larinda! Gather the children!" Marissa screamed as she headed for their hiding place.

"Move now! Into the tunnels!"

Marissa stopped only to turn back and fire into the onrushing crowd, uncertain of the effectiveness of her efforts. Her companion also fired relentlessly into the maddened hoard, but even those warriors struck by their bullets seemed to continue to surge forward. The gypsies were forced back, retreating from one wall to the next. She glanced over her shoulder. The last of the children were disappearing behind a distant bend in the tunnels. When she looked forward again, it was to see Goran suddenly overwhelmed by a crush of Crow warriors. In an instant he was dead, his body torn apart by the bloodthirsty raiders. Then they were turning to her. She cocked her weapon, but the chamber was jammed. She backed into a wall as one of the warriors rushed her. She fell backwards, and as she did the weapon fired. The powerful gun took off the head of the man that had stood before her alive a moment ago. She could feel the bile rising suddenly in her throat. She turned her head away, closing her eyes as she cast aside the gun. Something big stepped over her on the ground, but she did not feel the stab of weapons onto her flesh. When she looked up, she saw a green cape floating above her and gleaming metal gloves. Doom propelled the attacking Crow warriors into a sudden retreat with concussive blasts from his gauntlets. The invaders were forced back into the streets. In a fleeting moment of reprieve, he glanced down to her.

"Get up, girl," he ordered curtly. "Gather your weapon and get back with the others."

"I didn't want, I didn't mean to kill him," she stammered breathlessly, still shaking.

"Take it," he ordered again, forcing the gun into her hands, "use it. They will not hesitate to kill you, and you must protect the others! You are a soldier now!"

Silently, Marissa did as she was told, grabbing her weapon and quickly disappearing into the dark tunnel. She looked back as a fresh swarm of warriors piled onto Doom. As she rounded a corner, she saw that he too, was being forced back. Then, as she entered a large room, she recognized the tunnel they were in. "No, it's a dead end!" She searched for Larinda among the elder gypsies. "Larinda we have to go back, this one is a dead end!" But it was too late for that, as the battle was forcing Doom back into the tunnels. "Keep moving!" Marissa cried, urging the gypsies further down into the tunnel. The underground tunnel was tight quarters for Doom, with the smooth crystal wall on one side. The Crow warriors were relentless, and they continued to press him backwards through the sheer weight of their numbers. He kept his laser weapons quiet, monitoring the recovery of his weapon's systems carefully as he fought, and kept his senses on the alert for signs of magic. The close quarters were not suited to this strenuous physical combat, and if his weakened condition affected him at all, he gave no sign to the Crow, answering their vicious attacks with his own brand of viciousness.

Then Doom sensed that he was backing into an open space, a courtyard of some kind. The floor had changed from sand to clay tiles, and there was a fountain shoved up against the glass wall with a basin and a statue. And out of the corner of his eyes he saw the gypsy elders and children, trembling behind a low stone wall, trapped. And before him were the red eyed warriors, maddened by the smell of blood, feverish from the drugs they consumed, tenacious and uncaring in their attack. Even though they were bleeding or half-dead, they continued to fight and to pursue him, as if this was all that life meant to them. They swarmed upon him, attacking from all sides now, attempting to pull him down.

Meanwhile, in the main courtyard of the city, a new evil was threatening the gypsies. The wave spiders had found their focus, and momentarily forgetting the Crow, they had begun to attack the Hidden City itself. From bellies designed for horrible functions, soldier spiders spewed acidic blasts of liquid energy onto the crystal dome. Where the hands and feet and weapons of man had failed, the bellies of the alien monsters succeeded. Huge holes were torn through the glass shield, and the spiders flew into the breach with impunity, waving deadly talons at the gypsy soldiers that scattered for the cover of buildings under this new assault. Tobias was forced to abandon their post at the east gate, now besieged from within as well as without. He gathered his soldiers and headed with extreme haste toward their fall back position, leaving the east gate unprotected.

In the chamber at the end of the tunnel, Doom no longer would suffer the attack of any man. His anger rose like bile in his throat and exploded from his steely fists. He stretched himself to his full and intimidating 2 meter height, and with an untamed roar of outrage he lifted the warriors from his back and smashed their bodies against the cave walls. Restraining himself no more, he began to show them what brutality was truly all about. He cut into them with all the fury and anger he carried inside him, the frustration of his defeat at the hand of Herod, the pain at the loss of his countrymen, the fall from presidency to forced exile, all bubbled up to the surface in a seething wave of explosive rage. He pummeled their flesh with fist and foot and all of the fiery power within his armor. Bodies once whole were ripped in two by the projection of an invisible force field. Arms and legs and necks were crushed within the grip of his armored hands. Skin was burned by a blistering fire from his gauntlets. Backs were broken under his heavy boots. And when the weapons in his armor no longer responded to his commands, he picked up a massive sledgehammer once carried by the enemy, and swung it like a club into any man who came within range. His red eyes glowed with fierce energy, and no one could halt his bloody rampage. When the last Crow warrior was finally brought down at his feet, he continued to hammer furiously at the quivering body until it was nothing but a bloody mass of unyielding flesh.

Eyes reddened and glowing with unearthly hatred, his tattered breath whistling heavily through his mask, knee deep in the gore of his own creation, Doom stood motionless at last. His eyes scanned the room, hammer at the ready, heart beating through his chest in a pounding rhythm. There were no Crow left alive in the darkened chamber. They were all dead or had wisely retreated back into the bowels of the covered city. He felt exhilarated, and vindicated for but a moment, as the blood bursting in his veins echoed loudly in his ears. Then he saw the children, the elders, and Marissa, gathered in their hiding place behind the low wall. Their faces reflected not a joyous deliverance, but fear. They were hushed into frightened silence, afraid of the bloody specter before them who had displayed a savagery that they had never before and would never again witness first hand. And they were afraid of him.

He still held the sledgehammer as he approached them, and several of the children screamed. But he did not listen. Instead, he was listening to something else: a rhythmic pumping that he had first thought was his own blood. He approached the wall where the brown algae had discolored the crystal wall next to the fountain of water. There was nothing visible through that dark and impenetrable glass, but he stared at it intently. He placed a heavy metallic hand gently upon the surface for a moment, and held his breath. Suddenly stepping back, he kicked aside the little clay fountain, and the simple bronze sculpture of the dancing boy fell to the ground with a quiet crash. Then he lifted the sledge hammer up once more. Some of the children screamed again. He ignored them, and brought the hammer down upon the glass in a fearsome and mighty blow. The gypsies cowered and shrank back behind the stone wall, closing their eyes and covering their ears. Their bloody and battered leader pounded over and over onto that unyielding surface with no apparent reason, the sound deafening in its singular fury. He swung the hammer with all his might, even as the muscles on his back and arms burned and screamed in protest. Then, when the gypsies were finally sure that the Master had fully lost his senses, there was a different sound, a mighty crack that echoed through the cramped cave. The sledgehammer came down again, and the crack turned into many cracks. With all of the power left to him to command, Doom brought the hammer down one last time onto the weakened surface, and the crack was replaced by the musical chime of a thousand shards of glass shattering before him. And the glass was followed by a mountainous spray of water, and the rush of water carried away the glass and debris into the widening breach before him. Wearily he dropped the hammer at last onto the cave floor and stepped into the fountain of water.

Doom stood in the opening he had created and looked beyond it onto an enormous crystal cave that stretched for miles before him. Openings high above brought scattered light that was reflected and enhanced by the massive crystals growing in a wide clear pool. Beyond the pool, a deep, tranquil river cut through the rough granite walls, disappearing far in the distance. Marissa and some of the others slowly approached to peer over their monarch's shoulder into the wondrous space he had uncovered. The cool water had washed over him in a gentle shower, cleaning off the blood and grime so that his armor fairly glistened in the refracted light of the cave. Still, he was no longer the angel of deliverance that Marissa had once thought him to be, and she respectfully kept her distance.

"I recognize this place," Doom stated quietly. He mused over that memory for only a moment. "The river cuts through the mountains from below. I have traveled it once before, with the Atlanteans. Gather the people, quickly "he ordered, "You will find that the river will afford you safe passage to the sea."

Before anyone could answer, there was another scream in the chamber behind them. Marissa and Doom turned back as one, to see that one of the Crow warriors was still alive! The wild man had leaped up out of the pile of bodies and fallen upon Larinda, brandishing a long knife in one hand. There was blood on that sharp blade, and the old woman collapsed. Marissa was faster by only a fraction, and recognizing that fact, Doom held his own weapons in check. This bullet was true, and the warrior fell back dead. Marissa lowered the rifle slowly from her eyes, staring blankly into space. Then she dropped the weapon and rushed to where Larinda had fallen.

The old woman was dying, and she knew it. She allowed Marissa to cradle her head, and the young girl's eyes overflowed with tears. "Shhhh, be strong, my child," Larinda whispered gently. "You must take the people home."

"Please don't die," Marissa cried, choking on her sobs. "What will we do without you?"

"You will carry on," the old woman promised, "as I did for those who came before me." Doom walked over to stand beside them. He assessed the situation quickly, but said nothing.

"You have fulfilled your end of our bargain," Larinda told him, coughing painfully for a moment. "The waterfall leads to the sea?"

"Yes," Doom replied evenly. "Your clans will be safe, thanks to you."

"And to you. And the Zefiro . . ." She was quiet again, eyes closed and her weathered face grimaced for a moment in pain. Doom knelt down and felt for the pulse at her wrist. Suddenly the hand he held gripped his own tightly, her eyes opened again. "The Zefiro are waiting for you still," her voice was a whisper barely discernable above the roar of the water.

"Where?" he asked urgently. Doom knelt closer to make out her quiet reply.

"They will find you," were the last words she ever spoke. Her eyes were quiet, and Marissa's tears bathed her now peaceful face.

Doom stood again, and placed a hand upon the girl's shoulder. "Save your tears, child," he said softly. "There is work still to do." He turned away quickly and strode with purpose from the room, leaving Marissa to swallow her anger and sorrow alone in the cold dark cave.

From the now unguarded east gate, swarms of patrols from the Collective Guardsmen closed in with military precision on the gypsies' hideout. Signs and sounds of battle could be heard in the darkened ruins in the distance ahead of them. Slowly they made their way through the streets, keeping weapons at the ready. They passed numerous fires burning unchecked throughout the underground complex. Securing one building after another, they radioed back to their command post to report on their findings. There were hundreds of bodies, some gypsy, mostly Crow, and a few dead wave spiders littering the scene in a grisly display, but no sign of Doom as yet. Grimly, the troops moved on.

Tobias and his squad were among the last to leave. Avoiding both the rampaging wave spiders and swarms of Crow warriors, they had scavenged dozens of small boats, inflatable rafts, and just about anything that would float and hauled them into the distant cave at the western part of the city. What few belongings remained to the gypsies were quickly strapped down, and thrown into the breach. A short drop from the waterfall into the deep pool, and the gypsies climbed onto their rafts for a gentle float they were assured were take them to the sea. Even the animals that they had saved swam placidly behind them, tethered safely to their boats. Far down the crystal river, the first wave of gypsy boats had already disappeared from view. The sounds of battle from the cave faded into the distance.

Tobias continued to lay down plasma fire into the remaining Crow warriors that now skulked before him in the dark buildings. Lacking now in numbers, they no longer attacked, and kept their distance from the gypsy's fortified bunker. From a position beside him, Doom targeted the flying wave spiders, firing strange capsules from a gun he had constructed. The capsules appeared innocuous at first, but they exploded on contact with the spider's armor, bathing the alien creatures in a green vapor. Disoriented and weakened, the spiders crashed against the walls of the city, some falling dead instantly, others instinctively retreating from the battlefield to escape the dome and fly back to their nests.

"Insecticide," Doom had called it when asked by the gypsy commander, "a kind of viral poison." Doom had guaranteed him that the poison would be taken back to their nests in Latveria, to be spread among the entire population of alien spiders.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Tobias had thought to himself, scoffing at Doom's arrogance. Still, thanks to the Master's planning and uncanny luck they had survived thus far with only minor casualties. Now it appeared that their evacuation of the city had also been completed without a hitch.

"We're ready, commander," Jake yelled above the sound of battle. "The last are in the tunnel."

"Doom!" Tobias yelled. "We're leaving!"

Doom continued to target the few remaining spiders, making sure he used the last of his carefully concocted potion on this hated enemy. He was about ready to leave when a terrific explosion rocked the city.

"What the shock . . . ?" Tobias stated.

Doom turned in the direction of the noise. "The Guardsmen," Doom stated with grim assurance. He turned to the remaining fighters. "Take your men, get out as quickly as you can," he ordered, instantly recognizing what he must do and formulating a plan. "I will deal with the Collective Guardsmen myself, but I can guarantee no more than 20 minutes for you to evacuate the dome."

"Master, what about you?" Jake asked worriedly.

"I will cover your retreat. The tunnel must be destroyed, or you risk being followed downriver. Hurry! Do as I say!"

"All right, pack it in men," Tobias ordered sharply. He hustled his men into the tunnel, pausing only to look back at Doom, who marched into the open street behind them with bold impunity.

In the final chamber, Marissa still sat with the body of Larinda, covered now in a quilted blanket. Her eyes were dry, but her face betrayed her pain. "I don't want to leave her," she told Gavril sadly.

The old man reached into a pocket and placed a golden pendant in Marissa's hand. "She wanted you to have this," he said quietly. "We have to leave now, child. She is following a different path, but her guiding spirit is with us always."

Jake rushed in from the tunnel, and seeing Marissa still there, urgently grabbed her by the arm. "We have to go," he told her. "Now, Marissa!"

"But . . ."

Jake smothered her unspoken protest with his actions. He pulled her up and pushed her toward the opening. They stepped together through the gentle waterfall and jumped into the deep pool. Jake swam strongly to the waiting boat, and pulled Marissa up behind him. The last of the soldiers and Gavril followed close behind. Marissa looked expectantly back at the waterfall as they floated away and down the river.

"What about Doom?" she asked Jake.

Jake shook his head. "He's not coming," was all he said, as he too looked back upon the now receding crystal pool.

In the large central park of the Hidden City, the CG soldiers were launching mega mortars at the decades-old buildings, callously bringing down any potential hiding place for the Crow or the gypsies. Out of the billowing haze of smoke and debris brought on by their wanton destruction, a single figure walked calmly toward the huddled soldiers. His green cape floated majestically behind him. His eyes burned through the Lieutenant of the guard with cruel contempt. He marched directly at them, unafraid and unarmed, his disdain boldly apparent. He stopped a few meters away, facing the patrol fearlessly.

"I have heard that the Guardsmen wanted to see me," he shouted to them arrogantly. "Well, Doom is here. Do your worst, fools!"

The Lieutenant brought his laser gun to the ready, drawing a neat beam on the armored madman before him. He paused for a moment, wondering why Doom appeared to do nothing to stop them, and then ordered his men: "Fire!"

Thirty-one soldiers fired at once onto the motionless monarch, and thirty-one beams of laser fire reflected harmlessly off of an invisible force field that surrounded the armored man with a bubble of living energy. Well, not exactly harmlessly. For once the beams deflected off of his force field, they then were further reflected off of that glass ceiling. Once reflected off of the ceiling, they traveled in ever scattering beams back to the courtyard below. The Guardsmen looked up in frightened dismay, and then jumped for cover as beams they had fired returned to cut them to pieces. Some of the guardsmen, conditioned to react to enemy fire, continued to fire upon their enemy, with worsening results as Doom used his power of flight to float calmly above their position, still shielded from their lasers. The Lieutenant dove behind a low wall, covering his head, and looked up to realize his last mistake. "The mortars!" he yelled, trying to catch someone's attention, pointing at the box of explosives now unprotected in the center of the courtyard. In the next instant, one of those scattering beams found the large metal box, and a huge fire ball of flame rocked the center of the city, sending shockwaves that crumbled walls and reduced the remains of the Hidden City to dust. The cracked and damaged glass dome collapsed at last, and decades of piled sand filled in the massive hole in a monstrous cave-in that would leave a dust cloud above the area for months to come.

Floating down the crystal river, the gypsies heard and felt the shock waves from that gigantic explosion, but the thick granite walls around them held firm. Marissa looked back again to the distant pool, but there was no sign of Doom.

**Epilogue:**

He stepped off of the canal boat with his usual flair, walking easily onto the deserted wet dock under the warm light of a full moon. The boat man pushed away quickly, thankful to be rid of this dangerous fare, and poled his way slowly back down the canal. From the dock, the tall man strode quickly up the steep steps, stopping only once to scan the darkness for signs of danger. The perpetually flooded streets of this ancient city were dark and empty. Far away in the distance, the lights from New Venice glowed with bustling activity. He approached a darkened building, one of only a few that survived the daily floods that had ruined the old city of Venice. It was an old church, with bright stained glass windows and deeply scarred wooden doors. He used the rapper, and then waited impatiently in the shadows for the curator as he shook the dust from his emerald green cape. The massive doors were unlocked, and the curator appeared in the opening, still wearing his bed clothes. He peeked from the light into the darkness and caught the flash of silvery armor.

"Ah!" the old man spoke with surprise. "Come in!" he whispered urgently, opening the doors wide enough for the stranger to enter. "Welcome to Venice, Master!"

"Return to your bed, Vittorio," Doom intoned deeply as he stepped inside. "You did not see me."

"Yes Master," and Vittorio dutifully closed and locked the large doors behind him, gathering his light to move slowly up the stairs to his chamber without so much as a backwards glance.

Doom marched directly through the center of the old church to the altar. Pressing a secret control in the dark paneling behind the altar, he opened a concealed door. The doorway led into a short passage to another set of stairs, these leading down into the depths far below the ancient church. Stepping into the concrete vault at the bottom of the stairs, he activated the power, lighting the room and revealing banks of sophisticated electronic equipment. He moved quickly toward a glowing platform, and his hands flew with practiced ease over the controls. When he stepped onto the platform, a beam of energy passed through him. When the beam had completed its sophisticated traverse, the armored form that had stood there was gone. In moments, the computerized controls for the room automatically closed the doors and turned off the power, plunging the room and all of its wondrous secrets once more into darkness.

THE END

"_**If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. **_

_**Let him step to the music which he hears, **_

_**however measured or far away."**_

_**Henry David Thoreau**_

"_**Walden"**_

DS

August 2, 1996


End file.
